


Magic Consulting Colleagues: Fear Is A Choice

by Bugsyboo1313



Series: Magic Consulting Colleagues [1]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Sherlock (TV), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The World's End (2013)
Genre: Hogwarts, Hogwarts First Year, Multi, Post-Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2017-12-22 21:13:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 133,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/918080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bugsyboo1313/pseuds/Bugsyboo1313
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The characters of BBC Sherlock attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry.<br/>*UPDATE: This is the FINAL version of this story. I have finished making/fixing all the spelling, grammar, and event errors, so I will no longer change this piece of writing in any way. So if you read the earlier version, I suggest you re read this. Some things have been altered while others have been added. Just a short notice.*<br/>WARNINGS: Language, Some Scary Images/Disturbing Descriptions<br/>John Watson thinks he's the only wizard in the world, until he meets a strange boy named Sherlock Holmes who tells him about Hogwarts. </p><p>Unrealistic b/c of character ages and certain events. I want to make this story as eventful as possible, so some things are in there that technically shouldn't be. (I hope you like that they're in there.) Everyone is eleven years old except for Mycroft, who is sixteen. </p><p>Teachers are the same as in the Harry Potter books.<br/>Some Doctor Who references, but no characters or anything like that. </p><p>Please leave comments on my work. I love receiving feedback so I know what I can improve on or what you like about my work. Thanks! Enjoy! :-)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Different

**Magic Consulting Colleagues: Fear Is A Choice (#1)**

**_***UPDATE:**  _ ** _This is the FINAL version of this story. I have finished making/fixing all the spelling, grammar, and event errors, so I will no longer change this piece of writing in any way. So if you read the earlier version, I suggest you re read this. Some things have been altered while others have been added. Just a short notice.*_

**WARNINGS:** _Language, Violence, Descriptive/Scary Images_

 **Rated:** _Teen +_

 **Categories:** _Potterlock, Kidlock, Johnlock_

 **Summary:** _To be eleven years old and hated by his own sister is one thing, but to have special magic powers is totally different. When John Watson discovers he’s a wizard, his remarkable talents are only truly appreciated by his neighbor who lives across the meadow. Sherlock Holmes. When John gets an acceptance letter to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, he finally realizes he can fit in and learn skills with others just like him. But when a threatened evil fate of restoring the darkest wizard of all time back to power comes, Hogwarts uses none other than the dementors of Azkaban to guard their borders. As Sherlock puts it: “Fear is optional. The only way to defeat fear is to fight it.”_

_***I do not own BBC Sherlock or Harry Potter. All characters and related items belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, and J.K. Rowling. This story was written for entertainment purposes only.*** _

_**~ Please enjoy and take the time to write a comment or short review on the whole story. I want to get as much feedback as possible about my writing. Tha**_ _**nks! ~** _

_**** _

* * *

 

**Chapter One**

Different 

* * *

 

A young boy stood staring out of his bedroom window, watching two siblings lying in a meadow not far away. That was his meadow. No one ever went into his meadow. Even if no one was permitted to legally buy the piece of land and claim it as their property, the boy still liked to demand it belonged to him. The field was located in between two very distinct neighborhoods, a hill sloping down off in the distance to reveal the boy’s expanding hometown below. Usually the brunette never explored the outdoors, as he almost despised nature, but when he was acting odd and made up his mind, that was the place to go; his meadow.

But something about the dirty blond‒haired boy lying in the tall grass below created an exception. The bedroom boy’s eyes darted from the brother to the sister chatting together and his hand gracefully lifted in an unaware manner. The ends of his fingertips touched the glassy window’s surface, letting a cold temperature surge through the young boy’s veins.

The girl in the field below suddenly shuddered violently, panicking and slapping her sibling on the arm. The skinny kid in the shadows lunged towards the window, his face within inches of the glass. He’d been watching this short, blond‒haired boy intently for weeks now, and the decency of his behavioral strategies seemed to arouse the brunette, giving him this urge to meet the younger brother.

The boy sat in the dusty‒tinted grass, rubbing his upper arm and staring up at his abusive sister. The boy in the window glimpsed something in the blond kid’s hand. But then when he double checked, it in fact wasn’t in his hand at all. It was hovering  _above_  his hand. He blinked three times, not believing what he saw.  _He…this boy…he can’t be…it’s just not logical…_

But the level of advancement he was showing with making the item float and watching his relative at the same time was, quite frankly,  _unbelievable._  

The older sister stood up and backed away from her brother, shouting and holding her arms as far away from her body as possible. Her sibling rolled over to a kneeling position, pleading for her to return to his side and sit with him. But the girl kept backing off. She shouted some more words from her loud mouth, but the letters and syllables were muffled far away behind the glass. She pointed at her brother and then launched her chest forward, bearing her hands in fists behind her back. What a window couldn’t hide however, was the outraged look of envy smeared across her face. 

The short sibling froze. Whatever was hovering above his hand fell, bounced off his hand and landed in the grass below. The young boy looked alarmed, like something had slapped him across the cheek. His gaze turned towards the ground and he shook his head delicately as he rose from his knees.

He was beckoning for his sister to come back, but she kept refusing. The boy took a few steps in her direction, but she automatically turned and bolted away from her relative. Thirty yards away, she rotated on her heel, shouted one more time at her younger brother, and ran off in the direction of a large neighborhood of houses on the opposite side of the flat field.

The brunette tore his view out the window and turned back to his experiment in his messy room. He held a rather petite Styrofoam ball that was supposed to be a planet in his hand, and he heard it crinkle in his palm. He squeezed it so hard it snapped in half.

He pivoted on his heel and went back to stand near the window. The brother sat alone, curled up with himself, waving and twirling his minute hands in front of his chest. Something was up between the two siblings. On the other hand, most siblings always had a row with each other at some point or another. The boy in the understood because he had an obnoxious older brother who had just turned sixteen.

The eleven‒year‒old decided it was time; time to meet this curious boy. A boy unlike any other. Someone who was like,  _him._ He wiped the mist off the crystalline glass with his blazer sleeve, and adjusted the messy dark brown curls atop his head. He’d never seen such exceptional skill before.

And that’s how he knew this stocky built boy would be abnormally interesting and just fitting for such a clever magician like himself.

* * *

 

“What’s up Harry?” the younger sibling asked politely, using the girl’s shortened nickname. His sister sat staring across the horizon as the sun was beginning to set over a valley, being blocked from view by incredible rolling hills. The sky was a swirl of pink, orange, and navy blue, and the sun gleamed brilliantly like a large light bulb in the shape of a sphere. The boy’s jumper absorbed some of the transparent light, giving it an orange glow mixing with the original cream color.

“It’s none of your business, John,” Harriet snapped back at him. The boy named John crouched lower into the shadows of the tall grass, cautious about how his sister was feeling. Harry’s face had a radiant glow about it, yet her expression was the complete opposite.

John sensed droplets of water working their way into the pores of his jeans. “Why are you so upset?” he asked sensitively.

“I said, it’s none of your business!” Her tone was rising, so John backed off and let her be. His hand skimmed the ground over the pile of stones located to his right, in between Harriet and himself. He selected a rather flat one and twirled it in his fingers.

The grass behind his back swayed backwards and forwards, moving freely, but there was no wind to be felt on John’s face. Harry saw the blades move on their own, and she jerked in her seat.

“How…what is going on?” her voice became frightened, and her eyes became almost as wide as golf balls in their sockets.

“What?” John asked, trying to act normal. But when he rolled onto his back to look, the blades of grass had stopped moving. He turned back to Harry and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Nothing is there, Harry. It was probably just your imagin —”

“It wasn’t my imagination!” she cut him off, throwing his arm from its resting position. “There was no wind, but the grass was moving!”

“It’s fine, Harriet. Just ignore it.” John chucked the stone in his palm up into the air, catching it again and again. He felt the minerals scrape against his hand each time it touched his palm, leaving small marks of pink on his white skin. Harry looked bewildered, having her mind still on the mysterious grass, but her eyes left her brother and went back to the luminous sunset. Silence was tugging in John’s ears, but he broke it when he performed the action he’d wanted to, hoping his older sibling would approve as well.

“Look, Harry,” he said, staring at his palm. Harry rolled her eyes and changed her gaze, but she nearly had a heart attack when she spotted what John was doing. Her brother was rather pleased with himself. The stone he’d been throwing up into the air was hovering just centimeters above his scratched up hand. With no force or object to hold it in place, John had done it on his own with special powers he’d had since he was a child. Harriet jerked and scrambled away from her younger brother, and John’s expression on his face changed from comforting to confused. Harriet had been told about her brother’s abilities, but she acted like they were a disease when he used them for the first time in front of her.

She used her remaining courage to fling her arm out of nowhere and smack her brother on the upper arm.

“Ouch!” the younger kid replied as a reaction, but he somehow managed to keep the rock in mid air. “What was that for?”

“You know you’re not supposed to do that, John!” Harriet yelped, wanting to apologize for the hard hit she fired. “You know how it makes me feel!”

“It’s not going to hurt you, Harry,” John insisted, showing her the floating rock with a sorrowful expression on his face. “It’s just a stone.”

“Stop it, stop it!” Harry backed even farther from her brother. The eleven‒year‒old boy tried to come closer so she could see, but the thirteen‒year‒old sister didn’t approve, and didn’t believe it was happening right before her eyes.

“Don’t come closer to me with that thing!” she screeched. She was on her feet now. John could see the anger rising in her chest; a spark waiting to turn into a roaring fire. “That’s…that’s not possible! Nobody can…it’s physically impossible! Mummy told you not to!” Words kept pouring out of her mouth like nonsense.

“Come on, Harry, isn’t it cool?” John tried to get her to agree with him. But Harry’s eyebrows were lowering, and John sank farther down on his knees, cowardly.  

“No it isn’t!” John had already set the explosion off. Harry was boiling with an extreme hatred toward her brother, and he knew she was going to yell at him. “Don’t do that! It’s not normal! _You’re_  not normal. No wonder you’re so different from me…You’re a  _freak!”_

John froze. No one, especially Harriet, had ever insulted him the way she just did. His parents had certainly never chewed him out this badly before. He lost his concentration, and he felt the stone graze his arm before landing with a soft thud in the grass. He was upset. His deep blue eyes stared sulking at the ground. He didn’t want to talk to Harry. She’d called him a freak. Different.

But he had to say something so she’d forgive him. “Harry,” he started again, this time to apologize, looking back up at his older sister. Her hands were grasped in fists and she stood some five yards away.

“I don’t want to talk to you!” she bellowed. She spun around and began to run, her bare feet carrying her in the direction of their house. The lights in their neighborhood looked like fireflies from the long distance they were away.

“No! Harry!” John yelled, begging her to turn around and come back to his side. His voice drowned out at the end of her name as he gave up all signs of hope.

His sister skidded to a halt quite a distance away and shouted one more time. John could barely hear her. “And don’t do that ever again in front of me!” With a flick of her long hair, she took off. And with each step, she became farther from John’s crouching body. When he could no longer hear the pounding of her footsteps, John sniffed and whispered a plea under his breath.

“Harry, please come back…”

John let his body weight collapse and he sank onto the earth under his knees. His sad eyes stared disappointedly down at the stone that he’d dropped. John thought it was cool. He’d definitely known that there was something special about him, but not in the terms of ‘freak.’  

The words echoed in and out of his thoughts and memories. All these years, John had been doing strange things; making stones float, making things move, and forcing grass to sway without wind, but he’d never shown Harry how spectacular he truly thought it was. His heart sank as a dreadful thought came to mind. John supposed he was the only one in the world who could produce tiny forms of magic with his hands.

The only one in the world.

The blond noted the darkness surrounding him and the black clouds overhead. He watched the remaining view of the sunset; watched as all the colors swirled and blurred until the black took over completely. He rubbed his hands together and flinched as the tiny scuff marks on his left palm pained him. The early spring breeze blew over his face, leaving a bitter chill behind.

One by one, tiny droplets of water poured down from the sky in the clouds above. The rain was cool yet refreshing all the same. John’s spine tickled as he felt raindrops slipping into the neck of his jumper and sliding down his back. Within minutes his dirty blond hair was drenched. A few drops of water fell from the edge of his hairline down his face, and he sneezed as one dripped off the end of his nose.

It took him a while, but when he felt his jeans becoming heavier and denser, he finally stood up from his seat. There were several patches of mud scattered on his pants, and he decided to head home before his phone in his pocket would be destroyed.

He stood in the rain for a few moments longer, having a strange feeling that someone was watching him. It was 8:37 before he got up the courage to saunter back home and start the long walk alone.

* * *

 

“Don’t argue with me, Mycroft!” Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth. His sixteen‒year‒old brother stood in the frame of the kitchen door, having just gotten home from school for the summer holidays. He tried to push past his older brother, but Mycroft Holmes blocked his younger brother with his legs and arms so he couldn’t escape through the open holes of the doorway.

“Get out of the way, Mycroft!” Sherlock growled once more, clenching his hand into a fist. He heard Mycroft’s owl, Tirus, screech from behind his back.

“I asked where you were going,” Mycroft taunted him in his usual drawling voice. “I have just gotten home. Sherlock Holmes, I’d expect a better greeting than this.” His black umbrella stood at his side, acting as a cane. Mycroft carried his umbrella wherever he went for no reason, as the younger brother liked to tease him about the fact that it made him look older and more gentlemanlike.

“What?” Sherlock scoffed. “Did you expect me to bake a cake for you or something?” Sherlock laughed and smirked behind his back. “Besides, Mum and Dad aren’t home. You can have the whole mansion to yourself.”

Mycroft sank into his left hip, placing his hands on his hips. Sherlock mimicked his older brother, making a mirror image of the taller teenager who pestered him daily. Mycroft went to open his mouth, “You little bast —”but was cut off when Sherlock slipped through the hole between Mycroft’s knee and the doorframe. The younger Holmes sibling was used to his older brother’s insults, and he dodged the sixteen‒year‒old’s school trunk before flinging open the front door and slamming it behind his back.

It had been some two months since Sherlock had seen the blond‒haired boy last in the meadow. Summer was in the air. The scent of a least a dozen various flowers filled Sherlock’s nostrils, nearly making him wheezy. He stayed as close to the sidewalk curb as possible, his feet taking him to an unknown location.

He turned the corner at the last house in the row and went around the backside of it. He observed many things about the house, thus knowing details about the people who lived there as well.  _Paint peeling from the siding (old house), shutters always shut (unsociable), a hose near a rose bush, gardener (probably the mother), two sets of petite footprints in the dirt (two younger children), car unlocked in the driveway (forgetful people)…_

Typical Muggles, Sherlock thought. He strolled next to the wealthy family’s fenced yard. An angry Rottweiler growled at him as he passed, but he ignored the dog and continued on his way. His feet grazed over the lawn that had not been mowed in weeks as he walked, whistling to himself with his hands behind his back.

He looked up from his path and saw in the distance the hill in which he’d watched the young boy have a row with his sister some months previously. He adjusted the collar of his buttoned‒down shirt and pushed up his sleeves, revealing his skin to the warm air.

When Sherlock reached the top of the hill where the beginning edge of the tall grass grew, the other boy was nowhere in sight. He scanned the surface of the ground with his eyes, trying to make deductions. His legs weaved into a cross‒legged position, and he lowered his body slowly to the ground.

His fingers played with the dirt around him, and he identified every mineral and element in the soil resting in his hand. “Bored,” he said to himself, and he threw the dirt several feet in front of him.

The brunette suddenly heard the scuffling of a pair of feet over his right shoulder, and he spun on his hip to see who had snuck up on him.

Those deep blue eyes finally stared at him for the first time.

* * *

 

John lounged casually in his favorite armchair in the living room. It was red, green, and blue plaid; his father’s favorite chair as well. John used to sit with his dad in this chair when he was around. Now his father had gone off to serve in the Army, so he didn’t come home often. But John’s mum had told him and Harriet that their father would be coming home soon for a few weeks. John missed those days when they sat together in this comfy chair, the parent reading a children’s book to his descendant. That’s how Mrs. Watson discovered the development in their father and son bond.

John finished reading the words on the page. They were sketched into his mind, and they faded away slowly as he closed the book and placed it on the table next to the chair. His stomach grumbled, so he sat up and his feet drifted him into the kitchen. He pulled out a few Oreos from the cupboard and got out a glass cup.

He pulled open the refrigerator door, and a slight feeling of misery passed through his veins. They were out of milk. He returned the glass to its proper place in a ‘go figure’ way and ate his snack in silence. He saved the last one for a small experiment and set it down on the wooden table before his eyes.

He concentrated intently on the cookie in front of him. His mind raced between the two parts; chocolate cookie and cream. Mentally, he was going to make the treat break apart.

It didn’t take much effort. The cookie split perfectly in half, cream and everything. John felt very pleased with himself, and he swallowed the first half joyfully. He made the second half of the delicious snack spin in his palm. His magic tricks had improved in just two months, but he practiced them out of Harriet’s vision, because she still thought he had some sort of virus or had been possessed by a demon, or something…

The fantasy faded before his eyes; the sunset coming into view, the grass surrounding him like a maze, and Harriet sitting grumpily beside his figure. Words flashed in his mind.  _Freak, not normal, different…_

John shook his head, flinging the memories from his head. The cookie that still twirled and danced reminded him of the stone he’d shown Harry on the day she’d called him ‘different’. He shoved the remaining chocolate into his mouth and went to grab his shoes from his bedroom. He slid his toes under the bands on his sandals, feeling the squishy fabric on the balls of his feet.

He closed the front door gently and started the walk back to the meadow. He hadn’t been there since Harry had insulted him, but he got up the courage to return to his special meadow now; the place where he’d debated to go back to for many days since his last visit.

When he reached the clearing and passed the houses in his neighborhood, he saw a figure working its way towards the hill. He squinted his eyes, having never seen the human before, but continued his way to the field anyways. He spotted a hawk in the cloudless blue sky and watched it interestingly as it sailed gracefully through the air.

John hid behind the one random oak tree that was just to the right of the field. The blond peered his head around the tree trunk, getting a sneaky glimpse of the unknown boy. His eyes narrowed when he heard the kid say, “Bored,” and chuck a wad of dirt several feet forwards into the towering grass.

John’s foot reached out from his hiding place, but he heard a tree branch break beneath his foot. His head was fully out from behind the tree’s trunk, and he had only one second before the curly brown‒haired boy whipped around to see what had caused the noise.

This boy John saw, whoever he was, had very sharp cheekbones. They stood out like the moon compared to the stars and were very high placed on his long face. His eyes were also a very bright shade of green with a hint of blue around his pupils. He was dressed in a formal black blazer with matching dress pants, and the buttons on his shirt looked like they were about to burst from their seams. His brunette hair was arranged in perfect curls, which organized from his just off center part; the tiny hairs that couldn’t brush behind his ears fell in wisps over his forehead. Before the taller boy could hide what lay, no,  _hovered_ inches over his elbow, John’s eyes flew to the flower that bloomed smoothly very closely to the boy.

John didn’t understand when the boy stood and extended his arm so the flower flew through the air to where he hid, his hips and one leg still behind the tree. It was as if the petals connected to the stem were attracted to John, and the blond made it stop in mid air, his hand slowly rising to greet the flower.

He stared back up at the mysterious boy, who had a grin spread across his face. John couldn’t help but show the smile that was tugging at his mouth too. Some hope shot through John’s veins, and his heart had a warm feeling in it. He realized then and there, the gears in his head turning rapidly…

He wasn’t the only one in the world. No, not anymore. 


	2. His First Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know, this story is also on FanFiction.net  
> So, if you'd like to add it to your favorites or something, feel free.

** Chapter Two **

His First Words

* * *

Sherlock stared into those deep blue eyes for multiple, drawn‒out moments. It looked like a galaxy was swirling in those eyes; either that or they looked like he had eyes that were two glassy spheres of blue ice. This boy had eyes of his own. Surely no one else had such  _dazzling_ irises…

"Hello," the shorter boy said, rather nervously. He twitched his fingers stiffly as he waved his hand at the dark‒haired boy. Sherlock's eyes quickly looked away from John's as he noticed his silliness. His pupils darted to various points on the blond's shape, scanning his face, shorts, sandals, and t‒shirt. It was difficult making deductions with only half the boy's body showing, but Sherlock managed to pull a lot from the view regardless of the blocking tree.  _Nerves of steel, strong moral principles, alert to anything, yet still gets scared sometimes, doesn't like his sister much, shirt's really old…_

"Hi," Sherlock said, rather awkwardly and catching his mistake of not introducing himself. John revealed the rest of himself out from behind the tree, inching ever so closer to the eleven‒year‒old who stood in the field. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak again but the younger boy cut him off, not noticing the brunette was going to say his name.

"What are you doing here?" John asked, cocking an eyebrow and showing an obvious expression of curiosity on his face. "I've never seen you around before —"

"Well, that's because I don't usually leave my house. I'm not really fond of nature that much. I've actually been watching you for quite some time now." John felt appalled at having someone spying on him for weeks. He looked like he wanted to lock himself in his bedroom and never return. "Fascinating thing you did, that night you had that fight with your sister," the skinnier boy spoke, "making the stone hover over your hand and all."

"But you did it too," John said, dumbfounded, pointing to the flower that rested delicately in his left hand. He didn't even mention that the brunette had admitted he'd watched the argument. "You made it float towards me in mid air. I thought I was the only one in the world who could do that…"

"No no no," Sherlock almost chuckled. "There are lots of people in this world who can produce magic with their hands. Later when you turn eleven and you're old enough, you receive a letter from a school that teaches you how to control your magic. Only certain people are welcomed into the educational system."

"So you mean," John started, raising his hands before his chest and taking a few steps gingerly closer to Sherlock, "I'm one of these people who will go to this magic school?"

Sherlock tilted his head and raised his eyebrows to match the frown on his face. "Well, there's no guarantee you'd get accepted into the school. I think you will though, and so will I. My brother Mycroft goes there. He says he loves the education, but that's probably just because he wants to be the Minister of Magic one day."

"But, what does that mean exactly?" Sherlock tried not to roll his eyes. He needed to get used to being around John if they would attend school together. He never had much patience with people, but John had some certain sweetness about him. There was an exception with John Watson.

"I mean," the shorter boy chimed in, seeing the look on Sherlock's face, "why can I produce magic? Am I…special or something? I don't understand. Sorry if I'm also annoying or trying to pull too much information from you. God, we just barely met." He apologized and quickly talked to himself, telling how foolish he was acting in the presence of a stranger.

"To be honest, it's not bothering me at all." Part of that was a lie, but the brunette surely didn't show it.

"Really?" John asked, scratching his blond locks, "well, that's good then I suppose. Maybe we'll get along easily."

"Unlikely." There was no response back. Not even a suspicion from the younger kid that Holmes didn't like him already.

"You didn't answer my question," John reminded him, tapping his foot on the ground.  _Impatient,_ was another thing Sherlock noticed.  _Not all the time though._

"Well, I wouldn't say it's titled 'special'," Sherlock inferred, crossing his legs over each other and taking his seat back on the grass. "It's more that fact that you have a skill that allows you to create magic. A simpler definition being, you're a wizard."

John looked like he'd just won a million dollars. He pointed his finger at Sherlock and opened his mouth several times preparing to speak. Unfortunately, no words came out. He simply shook his head and gradually made his way over to the other boy. Sherlock squinted up at John, the sun shining blazingly over his head.

"Mind if I join you?" John's hand motioned to the spot next to Sherlock's sitting figure. The taller kid nodded, letting the strong, slightly stocky young boy join him.

"So..." John glanced briskly at Sherlock's long, lean face before rotating back to face the vast skyline beyond. "What's your name?"

"Sherlock," the curly‒haired boy introduced. He lifted the pressure from his elbow to extend his right arm out to the braver boy. Puzzled to some extent, John shook Sherlock's hand nonetheless.

"Oh, my fault." Holmes pieced together a ridiculously easy deduction. "You are left‒handed, are you not?"

John's face morphed between two expressions; bewilderment and perplexity. Sherlock knew the boy was contemplating what he'd just remarked about him. The silence was growing between them, making the moment more awkward than it already was.

"How did you know?" John asked, not even remotely twisting his head to look shocked at Sherlock. The boy with sharp cheekbones mouthed the words silently as John spoke them aloud, mimicking the blond's tone. He knew it was rude, and he hated people frequently asking how he did it, but he answered repeatedly every time.

"I didn't know," Sherlock reflected flatly, "I noticed." He grinned up at John from where he slouched, his elbows digging into the dirty earth. John replied with only one question.

"How?"

Sherlock heaved a deep sigh and raised an eyebrow at John as a warning. "You really want to know?" The boy with blond locks nodded eagerly, bouncing up and down where he sat.

"The way you looked at me when I extended my right hand, you gingerly shook it. There's also tiny traces of eraser marks from a pencil on your left hand. Signs of graphite sketched on your fingernails and there's quite a noticeable red mark in between your thumb and pointer finger indicating where you hold your pencil. So, there you go." He turned his head away as if someone had said something remarkably stupid. Sherlock showed not the slightest hint of interest on his face. There was a long pause in which John stared straight ahead, and Sherlock gleefully made a rock weave in and out through his fingers.

"That…was amazing," John remarked, scratching his left arm and glancing in all directions, highly impressed. Sherlock felt stunned; no one had ever commented on his deductions that way. John looked away, clearly fascinated as he bit down on his fingernails with his sharp teeth.

"Do you think so?" he asked back, wonder in his tone of voice.

"Of course it was!" Sherlock thought John was being notably exaggerating. "That was extraordinary! It was quite…extraordinary."

Quarreling, Sherlock looked surprised at the shorter boy. "That's not what people normally say —"

"What do people normally say?" John asked, stumped.

Without hesitation, Sherlock's echo was, "Piss off." John felt taken aback by the acknowledgement but had to laugh afterwards despite the totally uncalled for answer. He sensed Sherlock's elbow graze his left arm as the taller boy nudged him airily.

"That's some pretty harsh language people use to humiliate you," John said, sticking up for the new kid from the neighborhood over from his. Sherlock was going to say something back, but he stopped and decided to switch his question to a more important jumble of words.

"You never told me your name. I suppose it's something boring and common," he stated, peering moderately into the corner of one of John's deep blue eyes once more.

John's head turned to stare directly into Sherlock long, salient one. He reluctantly extended his non‒dominant arm, even though he knew it was always proper to shake hands with your right. Sherlock was correct with his hypothesis again, because he definitely knew his own name wasn't boring, but the younger boy's was. "I'm John," he said, a weak smile spreading over his face. "John Watson." They shook hands again, and Sherlock could feel the very strong muscles in Watson's fingers.

"Sherlock Holmes is my full name," the brunette reformed himself. "I never told you before."

"Nice to meet you." John's smile was  _adorable._ His hair fell in almost perfect wisps on his head, the blond almost shining gold in the sunlight. The locks were parted just off center as they swooped over the top of his head, and the edge of his hairline stuck up just a tad in the front. The blue of his eyes stood out incredibly, thanks no doubt to his equally blue t‒shirt. Sherlock was becoming keenly interested in this boy, and he wanted to know more information about him.

"So, John," he began, considering where to start, "tell me about yourself." A butterfly fluttered and burrowed deep down in Watson's stomach.

John thought it was strange and wrong to speak to a neighbor he hardly knew, but he figured the brunette couldn't be all that bad. "Uh, well…As you already know I have an older sister named Harry —"

"Harry?"  _Oops,_ John gulped,  _I suppose he thinks it's a male name._

"Harriet," he corrected. "She immensely disapproves of me using magic. She doesn't believe it's possible."

"She's a Muggle."

"A what?"

"A Muggle," Sherlock repeated. "Unlike you, she doesn't have the skill needed to perform magic like you can. A Muggle is a person who can't perform magic. Sorry, carry on."

"Right," John mumbled. "My mum is a nurse who works at the local hospital. My dad went off to train in the Army so I don't get to see him very often. He's been fighting in a war for a long time now. Boy, his post traumatic stress disorder gets worse every time I see him…It worries me."

"I‒I'm so sorry, John." The depression hit Sherlock for some unknown reason, even when it wasn't his father who was thousands of miles away. John had simply plucked the emotion buried under his organs in his chest without hindrance. He placed a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder and was taken aback when he felt John's fingers wrap around his hand.

John released the flower Sherlock had sent to him from his hand and let it float before him. He studied the tiny details on the petals and stem, absorbing the various colors. The blue swirled and faded gorgeously with the purple on the edges of the leaflets. The green almost matched the shade of Sherlock's eyes perfectly.

"Why me?" John asked, after an abnormally long silence.

"Sorry?" Sherlock misunderstood the question.

"Why can I produce magic? Is there a reason, or was I just chosen?"

"Like I said before, it's basically just a skill you have. Hundreds of people have it, but you feel you're the only one because those hundreds of people who can perform magic are scattered all around the world. You have the ability and strength to create magic;you just don't have the skill to control it yet. That's why you get invited to Hogwarts." Sherlock recalled the infinite number of times Mycroft mentioned the school.

"Hogwarts?" John snorted, finding the title funny.

"Yeah, I know. Absurd name for an educational school." He shifted his relaxed position. "It could be the fact that you might have parents who are wizards as well," he added. "It's sort of a mental connection between your brain and your hands that allows you to physically produce magic. Does that make sense?"

"Yeah, I guess it does. I've never considered that…" John had never asked his parents if there was a reason why he had such a remarkable skill, yet his mother told him not to produce magic in front of anyone, and his father said magic wasn't possible, just like Harriet.  _Could my mother be a witch?_  "That could be some experience, going off to a school just for wizards. Do you know anything about the school? You must. If I remember correctly, you said your brother went there."

"Read  _Hogwarts: A History._  Tells you everything about the school." Several shopping stores in the wizarding world of Diagon Alley held copies of the textbook.

"But you know more information," John informed, pleading with his irresistible eyes. "Besides, I'm not really fond of history. I just want to know what will happen when, or if, we attend the school."

"John Watson," Sherlock smiled, shaking his head in amusement, "I'd love to tell you, but I really must be heading back home. Mycroft will probably beat the hell out of me when I walk in the front door."

"Who cares," John told him. "Harriet's told on me so many times I've lost count. She can be immature and ridiculous sometimes." Holmes laughed and pushed himself up into a sitting position. His hands propelled himself up until he stood, adjusting his shirt and wiping the dirt from his pants. When John joined him to say goodbye, he was nearly four inches shorter than Sherlock.

The brunette turned to go without even properly exiting, but a question was lingering in his mind. He spun back around ten feet away, pointing a finger near John's chest. "How old are you, John?"

"Ten. Almost eleven. One month to go! Why?"

"Valuable information. When's your birthday?"

"July 7th." John shrugged his shoulders, messing up the hair on the back of his neck. The sun was radiating heat onto his body, causing sweat to drip down his back.

"Good. Mine's January 6th, just if you'd like to know." He smiled again and pivoted on his heel once more, preparing to leave.

"Wait!" John yelled after him, and he opened the palm of his hand lingeringly. "I think you should have this back." As he reached his arm out before him, the bluish‒purple flower flew gracefully through the air, not a hint of wind carrying it. John concentrated, his fingertips parallel to the ground and perpendicular to his body.

Sherlock took a lunging step forward, holding out both his hands in a cupped stance to retrieve the flower. John lost his concentration and the blossom melted leisurely into Sherlock's hand. The older boy was forced to pull a smile from his mouth, fixing his eyes on the blond. "Thanks," he said, a perspiring feeling spreading from his heart.

"You're welcome. And thanks for the chat. I'm glad I came out here today, otherwise I wouldn't have found such a surprise waiting for me." He winked. "Want to meet again tomorrow?"

"I think I can manage to sneak out of the house again," Sherlock said, snickering at the vision of Mycroft's face in his mind. John giggled.

"Right. What time then?"

"Half‒past noon?"

"Works for me," John concluded, setting an alarm on his wrist watch, which had been passed down to him by his father. There wasn't a manual, so Watson had gotten used to the military time flashing on the watch's surface in bright red numbers. "And be prepared to tell me about that magic school," John reminded him, starting to walk away and showing indication with his finger.

"I will!" Sherlock shouted after him, raising his hand into the air and waving. He didn't walk for at least ten minutes. He was acting very much like a normal human being, and John seemed to be the perfect example of one.

Holmes figured he would be a good example to watch in school, and then maybe he could be semi‒ordinary too. But it was joyful being unique and having your own talents, especially ones people least expect.

He examined the blossom in his hand; how the colors worked together exceptionally well, how the stem was two inches long, how the center was a vibrant shade of yellow. He lifted his head back up just in time to see John's tiny dot of a figure vanish beyond the isolated houses.

His strides began to carry him back en route of his home. He touched the softness of the petals to his fingernails. He smiled once more before placing it into his shirt pocket.

For this flower was important. The flower he'd sent to the brave, short boy as a gift. The one that matched his eyes. The one he'd selected specifically for the day he met John Watson.

* * *

John didn't need to write a note to remind himself that he was going to meet Sherlock again the next day. This particular Thursday, he'd had an awareness about him that was bursting wherever he'd stroll in bare feet around his house.

He'd had a long chat with his mother before she left for work in the morning as she sipped her coffee merrily. She had in fact known that John could produce magic since he was a young age. She told him about the times when he made his stuffed animals move in his crib, when he made his food move on his plate at dinner time, and how he accidentally made his pencil float in mid air once while doing his homework. He'd taken his hand away, but he focused so much on the pencil that when he removed his grip, it had stayed, positioned tilted in the air.

John's mum was thrilled to hear that he'd met someone who had the same special ability he did. She went back into her bedroom and emerged some twenty minutes later, lugging a small chest in her arms. And inside were items her son least expected to see. Wizard tools and books in all shapes were sitting on the bottom of the trunk, and she turned on the kitchen light so he could get a better view. Mrs. Watson showed John her wand, demonstrating a small act of a hand movement with it, but she avoided casting any spells. The wood in John's hands felt cool and bumpy in his grasp. It was embroidered with many different patterns; it looked like some vines and tiny leaves were carved into the magical item.

His mother pulled out three strange coins from the chest and slid them down the bar counter as she prepared her breakfast. John noticed one was very large and gold, one was medium and silver, and one was quite small and bronze. His mother didn't specifically identify the foreign coins, but simply stated they were used as the "wizard currency."

The last item she gave him to keep before securely locking the trunk back up was a book. It was old with a layer of dust on the cover, and the spine cracked when he flicked through the pages. The blond encountered a picture of a man dressed in red wizard robes and long, brown hair. John was startled to find that the picture, however impossible, was  _moving._ The caption under the image read:  _Godric Gryffindor, one of the four original founders of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._

"Is that the school I'll go to, Mum?" John asked, showing her the name. "Hogwarts?" He perfectly knew that it was, since Sherlock had told him the previous day, but he couldn't fully trust the neighbor yet and went to his mother for help as a replacement.

"It sure is, darling." She planted a kiss on his forehead and hoisted the trunk off the counter top. "You just have to wait till you come by your acceptance letter."

John gathered up his book and went to slip on his sandals. It was only quarter to twelve, but he rushed out the front door, informing his mother where he was off to as he went. He skipped optimistically down the sidewalk, his new present held in a tight grip at his side.

The grass tickled the tops of his feet as he adventured into the field. He could make out the meadow from where he was first, but he headed in the direction of the lonely tree close by instead. Taking some effort with his strength, he hoisted himself into the great oak tree, settling on one of the larger branches. He checked the time on his watch. 11:57 A.M. He opened the new yet old‒aged book his mum had given him and began to take in the information, traveling in his brain waves so he understood every word, flattening out creases in the pages every so often and sneezing from the dust floating in the air around his nostrils.

* * *

"What, Mycroft?" Sherlock glared at his brother from across the dining room table. He was forcing himself to eat some cheese and crackers, all the while checking the time on his watch so he wouldn't miss his meeting with John.

"You're very uptight, Sherlock," Mycroft informed him, tapping his fingers on the wood.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked, viciously. "Why don't you mind your own business, My." He picked out a sample of cheese from under his fingernail and flicked it onto his plate. He disliked the yellow substance but enjoyed the taste of the crumbly and buttery cracker in his mouth nevertheless.

"Seriously, I don't know what has worked its way into your brain, dear brother." Sherlock gave him the death stare at the name. "School will be hell with you around."

"I'm sure," Sherlock agreed so positively, rising from his seat. The chair scraped against the tiled floor and he took everything back into the kitchen. Mycroft rolled his eyes, watching his absurd brother go. Sherlock stacked the box of crackers back into the cupboard and threw the cheese pack carelessly into the fridge. The time on the kitchen stove read 12:03 P.M.

"I'm going out, Mycroft," Sherlock told him nonchalantly.

"Where?"

"Do I need to repeat myself, again? Just back off and leave me alone! I'm…meeting with someone." The heat rose in temperature in his cheeks as he blushed.

"Are you not telling me something, Sherlock? Did you finally find yourself a  _friend?"_  Mycroft sounded shocked that his brother was going to have a chat with someone.

"Shut up," Sherlock said, anger casually boiling in his chest again. "I'll be back later."

"Suit yourself." Mycroft didn't object. "Take your phone, just in case," he called after his sibling.

Sherlock sighed heavily and rolled his eyes again. "Fine," he decided, giving in. His nice shiny shoes patted against the floor of the mansion as he surged through the house, darting around objects and pieces of furniture to reach his bedroom. He busted the door open with a loud bang and nearly knocked over a beaker containing a potion he was mixing. It was a vibrant shade of purple.

He snatched up his iPhone from his bedside table and bolted back out the door. He flew down the staircase, nearly falling on his face twice and poked Mycroft in the back of the head as he went by.

"Be back later," he teased his older brother as he slid out of the teenager's grip. The front door clicked shut behind him and he rounded on himself, heading for his backyard. When he turned the corner, the field came into view, the meadow just beyond with the green hills in the distance.

Sherlock did a speed walk through the grass, putting his iPhone into his blazer pocket. The heat was sweltering, and he regretted wearing his suit in the sweltering temperature. He felt sorry and pictured John already waiting in the field for him, eager to learn about Hogwarts.

He arrived at the spot where he'd sat the previous day but didn't find Watson's form there. He scanned the ground with his eyes and the surrounding area. Holmes spotted a pair of footprints mushed in the dirt at the base of the oak tree. He examined the shoe print, identifying that it surely was John's. He looked around one more time, wondering where the blond could be hidden.

"Fancy meeting you here," said the familiar bold voice. Sherlock's head jerked upwards to where the sound had traveled from.

John Watson sat on a ledge far above in the tangled branches, his knees pulled up to his chest with a grin on his childish face,and  _Hogwarts: A History_  resting in his lap.

 


	3. The Shadow Of A Genius

** Chapter Three **

The Shadow Of A Genius

* * *

"How long have you been chilling out up there?" Sherlock questioned, spying the book lying open in John's lap. There were quite a considerable number of pages that had already been read and were lying on the left side of the book's spine. John's hand pushed the exceptionally thick book closed and he patted his hands on the cover. Then, he scanned his fingers over the smooth, bumpy letters carved on the book's dusty surface.

"About an hour and a half." Watson shrugged his shoulders, shaking off the idea. "Catch." Sherlock was unprepared for the flying object but managed to collect the book clumsily in his arms.  _John's got news._ He looked over the ancient book, recalling the time when he'd first read the words on the pages. The binding was very fragile and some of the pages had been torn from previous reading experiences.

"Wait," Sherlock paused, remembering their conversation from the previous day, his tone of voice in utter confusion. "You said you didn't like history…" He pointed a finger up at the branch John was crouching on.

"Okay, maybe I lied a little, because that book right there, that has some fascinating information in it. And I've only read the first category of the first section." John took hold of the branch he was sitting on securely and swung his legs through the remarkably tiny opening between the bark and his chest with extreme skill. His arms extended to their full lengths as his legs dangled loosely below, his muscles contracting in his stomach.

"Never thought I'd get into it that much," John admitted. "At least until my mum revealed an old school trunk of hers from her school days. You were right." His mood enlightened and he nodded at Sherlock down below on the ground.

"I was right. Right about what?"

"Me possibly having wizard parents. Turns out my mum was a witch. I find it odd that she never mentioned her school days to me after all these years." He let his grip go on the bark and fell some five feet down, gravity dragging him. Sherlock was alert and shifted his position to stand directly under John, hesitating whether or not he was going to fall. But Watson caught a grip on a lower branch with his leg and by wrapping his elbow securely into place. "Dad hasn't even been remotely interested," he continued, shifting his position on the twig. "He wasn't too thrilled when he found out she was a witch, but he accepted the truth as the years went by. Now he kind of embraces it."

"Ah, so you're a half‒blood." Sherlock played with the curls in his hair.

"A what?"

"A half‒blood. It means you only have one magical parent. My parents are both wizards, so that makes me a Pureblood. And if both your parents aren't magical, you're a Muggleborn. Not fond of speaking that name…" Holmes flinched as John's arm lost balance and skimmed against a branch.

"Will you stop doing that?" Sherlock insisted, gingerly tensing up with every move John attempted. "You're making me nervous…"

"If you insist." John swung once more from the branch, fell several yards down and landed roughly on the grass, his knees buckling under the weight of his chest. "Ouch," he remarked, eyes flying to a cut in his non‒dominant wrist. A small dribble of blood dripped morosely down his arm, leaving a trail behind in its path.

"Oh, you okay, John?" Sherlock asked him cautiously, approaching his figure with his arm held out before him.

"Yeah, it's nothing," the shorter boy assured him. "Trust me; I've gotten a lot worse." He pressed his left hand to the wound and proceeded to search for something he could use to stop the bleeding. "Thanks to my mum being a nurse, Harriet and I have been taught how to treat these things that don't cause much damage properly."

Sherlock undid the button clasping his blazer closed and it slid leisurely off his shoulders. He removed  _Hogwarts: A History_ from the unstable ground surface, curled his blazer into a ball, and set John's fragile book in the protection of his jacket.

When he spun back around, John had ventured quite a distance away, still clutching his arm and staring roughly at the ground. Sherlock's feet automatically responded and were attracted to the little kid like a magnet, as he became aware that he was inching closer to the blond‒haired boy. John was mumbling to himself, and Sherlock overheard him say, "Where is it?" He came to be in a direct line with Watson, and when he reached the edge of the maze of tall grass, John kneeled, his blond head barely visible above the mass of green.

Sherlock watched thoroughly as the smaller boy made barely noticeable movements in the meadow. The brunette met up with him where a patch of the sharp plants had been flattened, revealing an assortment of objects related to nature. John's injured skin came into Holmes's peripheral vision, and he saw that the fascinating boy had a leaf softly pressed to the cut in his arm. John saw Sherlock looming over him and stood up, their faces about a foot apart.

"You have to use whatever you can find," he stated, feeling ridiculous all the same while Sherlock stared down at him.

"What's all this?" The taller human was curious and his eyes darted to the small pile of random nature under the grass.

"Harry and I collected these things." John motioned with his eyes and dipped his head in the vicinity of the objects. Pine cones were stacked in an unstable tower, twigs and sticks intertwined with each other, and there was even an unoccupied birds' nest hidden under a mound of leaves. "When we were younger, we used to play with our imaginations and picture different things we could create using them. We built a really neat castle once. Harriet stormed off and got in a rage with me when I accidentally knocked it over though…" Sherlock tried to hide the snicker that was building up inside him. John stood, rubbing his arm tenderly and occasionally glancing at the time on his watch.

"You promised." The words blurted from his mouth unexpectedly, making Sherlock jump, alarmed. He raised an eyebrow, showing the younger kid his confusion. "You said you would tell me about Hogwarts." Sherlock understood and the 'aha' moment clicked in his brain.

"I did, didn't I? There's no need to though." He tried to tease the ten‒year‒old out of it, but Watson didn't give in so easily.

"It's a book," John mused, "just words. Stories reveal more than books. Spoken words tell more than reading in certain cases."

It was a true fact for the most part. John had his ways of hacking into Sherlock's brain, forcing him to side with his irresistible puppy eyes; yet Sherlock had only known him for a day. It made the younger wizard look relatively similar to a hedgehog.

"Very well," Holmes gave in. John was thrilled. "But let's go sit in the shade. The heat's killing me." The blond followed in Sherlock's shadow, keeping a firm hand pressurizing his wrist. The shade was nippy against Sherlock's skin as he took a seat among the blades sprouting throughout the lawn, John taking the spot opposite him on the mulch surrounding the tree's base.

"Now, where to begin…" Sherlock contemplated, racking his brain of his knowledge. The endless total number of facts there were made it logically impossible to select a starting point.

"I discovered a picture in my book while I was skimming through the pages," John advised Sherlock, providing him with a subject to clarify. "A man named Godric Gryffindor. Does that name ring a bell to you?"

"Significantly." Sherlock rounded on John as though he was a new movie star actor and didn't know anyone. "He was one of the original founders of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. There were four of them, and they named the houses of the school after themselves. Hence Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin became the different categories of the castle."

"What do the houses represent? Are they important to the study of education or something?" John assembled  _Hogwarts: A History_  afresh against his thighs, leaned against the oak tree's trunk, and stretched out his damaged arm on the book's cover. He shuffled his feet adolescently and opened his ears so he could hear his neighbor's tale sharply.

"Well…" There was uncertainty in the older boy's voice, "not exactly. You see, all the students who are accepted into the school are sorted into distinct houses accordingly based on their personality and physical or mental traits. All the houses compete for house points during the school term, and the house with the most points at the end of the school year wins the House Cup."

"What are the different house traits?" The questions kept racking up but Sherlock contained his composure, knowing he couldn't flip out in front a boy he'd met the previous day.

"Gryffindors are bold and brave. A lot of famous wizards were supposedly sorted into Gryffindor, which doesn't surprise me. Each house also has an animal that represents the students in them. Gryffindors are lions. Hufflepuffs are loyal and hard‒working. Hufflepuffs are just sort of there, being the less appreciated badgers;they're the students who pretty much don't fit in to any other house. Ravenclaws are full of intelligence and knowledge, keen in learning. The eagle is the mascot of their house. And Slytherins are the ambitious and cunning type. They mostly want to achieve power or wealth in life, and a serpent serves as their animal." John's face looked mildly amused, and he prudently pulled back the tattered old leaf connected to his skin to check on the cut.

"Sounds like an odd bunch," John joked, giggling to himself and replacing the leaf back to his wound. "You sound like a Ravenclaw," he pointed out to Sherlock. "You know a lot about the universe."

"I'd agree. I consider myself a genius," he said, puffing out his chest and straightening his back. "I certainly have an immense level of knowledge."  _Okay,_ _now he's just thinks he's the smartest person in the world,_ John thought while rolling his eyes. "Sometimes I consider myself a Slytherin," the brunette mused, getting caught in a spider web between two of the more popular school houses.

"Oh, come off it," Watson rejected. "I can't imagine you'd want any power in life. I supposed it's just getting to you because of that weird thing you do."

"It's not weird," Holmes pointed out. "I take in and observe things, unlike some people who see but don't make observations." John looked ashamed and traced circles in the dirt with his toe.

"I'm just saying that it's a bit unusual," the blond mumbled, speaking from behind curled‒in knees. "Sorry if I upset you."

"It's fine. Most people say that anyways."

"I'm sorry." John really looked guilty and hid in the shadow of the tree trunk as he repeated his innocence. The non‒typical apology sent both of them into silence, but Watson soon perked up again as his morning memories came back to his brain.

"Oh, yeah! Come to think of it…" John hastily dug his left hand into his shorts' pocket. Sherlock heard a clinking noise of certain elements on the periodic table scraping together. When his hand emerged, John held three glinting coins in his paw. "Mum told me these were what wizards used for currency. She didn't explain though." The ten‒year‒old seemed to be so attached to the brunette already that he referred to his mother like Holmes was his brother.

"May I?" Sherlock leaned in closer to John, holding out his hand with a soft expression written in his eyes. John tilted his hands and the money slid rhythmically from his hand to his fellow wizard's. Sherlock sat back in his original position, one knee up to his chest, chilling his elbow against it before continuing.

He took the largest coin in two skinny fingers and raised it to his eye level, holding it out for John to see. "This one," he began, "is a gold Galleon. This one is worth the most value in the wizard currency. This is a silver Sickle." He replaced the Galleon with the next coin a smaller size down. "Seventeen of these Sickles makes one Galleon. Yeah," he inferred John, seeing the look on his face.

"And this smallest one is a bronze Knut. You could almost fit three of these in the circumference of a Galleon. There are twenty‒nine Knuts to a Sickle, which if I did my math right makes 493 Knuts equal to one gold Galleon."

"Really?" John asked, wonder and amazement in his face. Sherlock reached back towards Watson and gave the coins back to their owner. After all, technically he would be stealing the younger boy's money if he kept them.

"Yep. Those are what you're going to use to buy all your school supplies, in Diagon Alley of course. You'd love it there. One long crooked street, hundreds of magically shops lined with books, potion ingredients, Quidditch supplies —" He swiped his hands through the air in a flowing notion, trying to set the scene so John could picture it. When Sherlock first experienced the wizarding world, it turned out to be nothing like he ever expected. "You'd be good at Quidditch with the skills you've just showed me," he added, his eyes snapping open from the dreamy land he was stuck in.

"I would?" John had never played any sports on a team when he was younger. He enjoyed throwing a football with his dad when he was home before he went off to the Army, or sometimes throwing a baseball up into the air by himself and seeing if he could catch it again, but he never made any school sports teams. Once during baseball tryouts he was accused of cheating, as he'd secretly used magic to make sure the bat hit the ball when he'd swung for a home run. There was no way he would have been able to smack it, considering a kid couldn't hit a curve ball like the one the coach threw.

"You've certainly got the athletic ability." Sherlock gave John a warm smile of comfort. The more muscular boy blushed and lifted his shoulders to his cheeks.

"You know, I'd never thought I'd meet someone just like me," John whispered, looking shyly at Sherlock from behind his bent knees.

"But, we're so different from each other," the older wizard pointed out.

"Not so. At least, not to me. Because you're my friend." Sherlock felt a sensation rising from deep within his chest. He locked his eyes on the blond‒haired boy, making sure to take in every detail of his face. Those handsome blue eyes looked so sure and positive, Sherlock didn't know whether he could believe John or not.

"Your…friend?" Sherlock stuttered, in utter shock.

"What's the matter? Is there something wrong with that?" John's eyes went sad and spread wider than they were.

"No!" Sherlock squeaked, regaining his composure. "It's just…I've never had a friend before."

"Well, it looks like you've got one now." John's rosy cheeks puffed out and he buried his face in his sleeve, trying to hide his embarrassment. Sherlock's mouth was agape, and he speedily moved his hand over his face to cover his open lips.

"Well," he sighed, breaking the awkward moment between the two friends, "you continue reading that book, John. It's the key to knowing what your future is full of. You still won't know as much as I will since Mycroft blabs about everything." Sherlock rolled his eyes at the attention of his brother.

"I will!" John pronounced he wouldn't fail his friend. "I'll read it. I'll spend most of my summer reading it. Then I'll be prepared for my first day of school." He rocked back and forth on his tailbone, gripping his ankles securely into his body, his chest rounded into a tight ball.

"You make it sound so easy," Holmes chuckled, highly amused.

John went to stand up from the grass. "Wait!" Sherlock jabbered. John paused, his hands planted motionlessly into the earth, the weight of his hips bearing down on his arms and legs. Sherlock didn't speak but instead dipped his neck, implying for the blond to glance in not a doubtful direction.

John contracted his eyebrows, scrunching up his nose in befuddlement. He did a little motion with his head, and Sherlock surveyed the spot once more. John concluded that his friend was nodding his skull at his injured arm, asking without words how its condition was.

John pulled back the sticky leaf, which had a broad circular patch of blood stained on it. The stem in the center of the flaky leaf absorbed most of his blood, making the object look like a glorious painting. But when Watson removed the leaf from his arm, there wasn't a cut there at all. His skin had mended itself, and the dried blood was smudged around where the cut had been minutes ago.

John understood and looked back up at the older boy. He had a smirk on his face, twirling a stick in and out between his fingers. "How did you do that?" the shorter kid remarked, chucking the leaf aside and examining his skin. His fingers ran over the smooth new cells, and the eleven‒year‒old shrugged his shoulders.

"I suppose it's just a magic trick." John gave up trying to ask how Sherlock did it and exhaled, feeling a bit stupid while he smiled at his foolishness. He stretched his legs to their full extent, reaching his arms above his head and feeling his muscles elongate. Sherlock reluctantly stood to join him, acting lazy and taking his time rising to his feet.

"Think fast." Sherlock didn't have time to react before his black blazer ran into his chest, and gravity began to force his jacket back down to earth.

John was quickest to operate. He concentrated his mind specifically on the blazer, and just before the tip of the left sleeve brushed the ground the jacket froze, Sherlock's body bent double over it, hoping to prevent it from falling. John made the blazer move ghostly‒like through the air, swiftly coming to a halt ahead of Sherlock. Holmes shifted and meandered to the opposite side of his clothing, plunging his arms into the depths of his jacket's sleeves.

"Thank you," Sherlock smiled, knowing John's actions were simple yet touching. The smaller kid saluted with two fingers, the way his dad had taught him years ago; the way they saluted in the Army. The shorter boy felt his phone vibrate fiercely in his shorts' pocket, so he pulled it out and sighed at the message blinking on the home screen.

"Harriet's demanded me to come home." John flicked his wrist, disapproving of his sister. He sent a quick reply.

**Be home in a few. –JW**

"I'll see you later then," John said turning to go, his book clutched in his hand and still in shock over his arm.

"Can I have your phone number?" Sherlock suddenly blurted out. John swung back around approvingly and reached back into his pocket. Watson went to his phone options, seeing as he always forgot his own cell phone number.

"That's your sister's old phone," Sherlock pointed out, stating the obvious fact before recording his friend's number in his contact list.

John Watson. His friend. Sherlock's  _friend._

* * *

John Watson rolled over sluggishly in his bed. His phone had made a _ding_  noise, and he wondered who could be texting him at such a dreadful hour in the morning. He rubbed his eyes harshly and yawned voluminously. He blinked back watery eyes when he spotted his phone lying screen up on his bedside table.

It was a text from Sherlock.

**I'm outside in the field. Can you come at once? It's urgent.** **‒** **SH**

John was slightly baffled. The alarm clock on his bedside table flashed obnoxious red numbers at him, bearing the time 3:47 A.M. Being summertime, there was still a hint of chilliness in the early morning's breeze. John grasped his favorite black coat from the hook in his bedroom closet and gritted his teeth, hoping his door wouldn't creak when he pulled it open. Why he was actually going out to Sherlock was bizarre, considering it wasn't an expedient time for the matter.

He tiptoed inaudibly down the staircase, careful to skip the squeaky step, his toes pressing against the ice cold floor.  _Mum left the air conditioning on again_ , he thought to himself, hearing the faint rumble from the vents overhead. It had been several weeks since they last met in the meadow. They'd gone for walks in the park since then instead, stopping for ice cream along the way now and then and finding out more things about each other. Sherlock was fascinating. He performed science experiments in his free time and liked to research as much history as he could. He didn't sound like a typical human being, but John had found his odd sense of life to be captivating.

The date on the kitchen calendar near the stove read July 2nd. John had been counting down the days to his eleventh birthday, crossing off squares excitedly on his calendar pinned to the bulletin board in his room. He was also still waiting for his letter from Hogwarts to arrive. Sherlock had warned John that it would not come by normal postage; there was no note of the older neighbor receiving his letter yet either.

He passed through the living room, seeing the moonlight reflect off an object lying on the coffee table. John had to get right up close before realizing that it was a DVD of  _Doctor Who, Series 3._  He smiled, thinking about the tenth Doctor and how brilliant he was. A connection sparked in his mind as he remembered his friend.  _Poor Sherlock, probably sitting alone in the field, shivering against the cold, bitter wind._

He closed the front door as unnoticeably as possible, and he felt odd walking down the road in his pajama bottoms and his comfy black coat. The grass crunched under his sneakers as he glided towards the meadow. It was almost completely pitch‒black outside, and very few clouds littered the sky.  _It's beautiful,_  John thought, staring up at the sparkling stars.

John nearly tripped over a tree branch randomly lying in the curtained grass. He cursed under his breath and shoved his hands in his pockets, carrying on his way. He could see the outline of the great oak tree far away, and he took off at a sprint, his mind never leaving the thought of Sherlock. The wind blew up through the bottom of his pajama pants, making him shiver.

The patch of dirt under the tree met his feet sooner than he expected, causing Watson to nearly run over his best friend. Holmes sat at the base of the trunk, his phone in his hand, tracing the word of his text he'd sent to John on the screen.

"What's wrong?" the blond asked. "You summoned me."

All Sherlock grumbled was, "Mycroft's being a git."

* * *

Turns out, from what John had managed to get out of Sherlock, was that Mycroft had gotten so pissed at him in an argument that he shoved his sibling hard onto a wood floor. Apparently Mycroft had apologized directly afterwards, but Sherlock had never been so hurt in all his life. John told Sherlock he was simply shook up. He pulled the skills from his mum; took Sherlock's pulse to make sure it was normal, and pressed a hand to his forehead, checking that his temperature wasn't high.

"I'm fine, John," Sherlock shrugged him off, taking his friend's wrist and lowering it delicately. There was no need for such medical condition in his shook‒up state. It was just morally moronic. "I'm sorry," he apologized, and John looked practically confused. "I shouldn't have made you come out here at this time of the night."

"It's no big deal," John said, though Sherlock knew he was lying.

"I've been out here for four hours now," he stated, keeping his focus on the lights in his home's windows off to his right.

"What?" John yelled, mortally horrified. That time could've been used to sleep, not sulk. "Sherlock, you know there are wild animals out here, and staying alone in the dark is not the greatest thing in the universe to —"

"I know, I know." A cloud shifted above their bundled figures and illuminated them in a spotlight of the moon's glow.

"Come here," Sherlock offered, patting to the open spot next to him. John delayed time, hopping up and down on the balls of his feetbut eventually joined the brunette. He sat down, his right arm pressing against Sherlock's left.

"Try to go back to sleep, John," he heard Sherlock whisper in his ear.

"Are you insane? It's bloody cold out here thanks to the brisk wind!"

"Just try. Please, for me?" John exhaled and couldn't help but do it for his friend. His head rested limply on Sherlock's collar as he felt his bony shoulder blade dig into his cheek tissue. He would've thought physical contact would disturb the older boy, but the familiarity of having a companion around all the time made him not care.

Sherlock was attracted to John's light breathing not long after he insisted the blond should sleep. Little John must have been super tired as he basically greeted rest like an old taller boy watched his chest rise and fall steadily, and saw the glint of the moonlight reflect off his undisturbed face as the smaller boy slept peacefully.

Holmes made no racket of noise while he maneuvered his position so he could remove his own coat. He gently wrapped it around the young child's boy to give him an extra layer of warmth, and getting adventurous he curled his arm around the boy's hips and lured John in closer.

He smiled and whispered into his buddy's ear, his sentence slowing near the end, partially hoping the anxious wizard didn't hear. "My dear Watson…You're such a companion, you are."


	4. Occupations

**Chapter Four**

Occupations 

* * *

"Happy birthday!"

The two boys sat in the living room of the Holmes' mansion, happily celebrating the first day where the younger friend turned eleven. Sherlock had forced Mycroft to stay out of their business since their relationship still wasn't stitched up; considering Mycroft had shoved his brother, the younger sibling wasn't fond in laying his eyes on his teenage housemate for a few days.  _Doctor Who_  was paused on the television, and a lonely present sat before John on the carpeted floor. He eyed it suspiciously, awaiting the moment that he was allowed to reveal what was hidden under the bow on top of the gift.

"Open it!" Sherlock urged him, making a shooing motion with his hands. John sagged his head a little and smiled, shyly reaching out to grab the gift. The wrapping paper was scarlet and gold striped, and a shimmering gold ribbon was stuck on top; John's hand automatically ripped the bow from the paper and he placed it lightly on the crown of his head.

"It's tradition," he told Sherlock, who giggled at his frivolous and silly behavior. "Whenever you have a bow on your birthday or a special holiday, you have to stick it on your head for at least five seconds." He dipped his head forward and the streamer slid from his hair, landing lightly on the floor. Sherlock scooped it up and played with it, tossing it between his hands frantically.

John felt awful ruining such a beautifully wrapped package. There was a cardboard box underneath the slim layer of red and gold, and he struggled to unstick the tape holding the lid closed. He eventually cut it in half with his fingernail and the cap lurched upwards.

John reached a few fingers into the box and revealed what looked like a glass top from the container. The colors of red, orange, yellow, and teal were swirled together in a pattern in the inner sphere. "What is it?" Watson questioned, observing the strange object and tapping on its glass outer shell.

"It's called a Pocket Sneakoscope," Sherlock explained. "Supposedly it lights up and spins on its own when someone untrustworthy is around. I figured you'd need it once we go to school, since you're so keen to meet new people. I just don't want you falling into the hands of a  _wrong_ person…" John beamed at the gift, holding it in his hand. He didn't need to concentrate or anything; for when he held it, the Sneakoscope was poised upright on its point, perfectly balanced.

"Thanks!" John exclaimed, still checking out his new present in awe. Sherlock felt joyous as he watched his friend get a little too excited over an enemy tracking device.

"So what do you say?" Sherlock suggested, facing the television repeatedly. "How about some more  _Doctor Who_?"

* * *

"No, no, NO!" Sherlock screamed, making John jump in his seat. The shorter boy was sprawled lazily on Sherlock's bed and had been dozing off into space. The trees outside Sherlock's bedroom window swayed leisurely in the late July wind.

"Jesus!" John cried. "What was that for?"

"My potion boiled too much. The temperature was just a minor amount of degrees too high." Sure enough, when John rolled over, the beaker containing Sherlock's brewed substance had overflowed onto his experiment table and was bubbling ferociously.

"Be right back," the experimenter mumbled, picking up the glass with rubber gloves and bringing it speedily into his bathroom. John heard the mixture being sucked down the sink drain and pushed himself to a sitting position, his legs outstretched in front of his hips.

"Whatever," Sherlock sighed, throwing the beaker onto the table. It slid a little too far and crashed to the floor, shattering glass throughout the room. "That potion had a tedious brewing process anyway." John was always amused watching Sherlock work on his experiments; he was privileged the day Holmes had offered the blond if he'd wanted to be involved in some of his experiments. John's hypothesizes didn't turn out to be remotely close to what he'd expected when he agreed to the job.

Suddenly there was a loud  _BANG!_  and John saw some sort of flying object hit the window outside, which even made Sherlock jump out of his skin. There was a blur of brown and black as the animal stumbled in mid air, wings tangling while missing the window sill. It regained its composure and was able to land on the ledge during its second platform attempt.

A feathery owl sat poised on its claws, a letter tied securely to one leg. Sherlock glanced at John, knowing perfectly well what it was. He flew over to the window, John at his side, and tore open the skylight. He let the owl hop gleefully into the room and stared into its glassy spheres, which didn't blink at all.

Sherlock untied the knot on the owl's leg and gathered up the letter. Without hesitation, the owl turned its back on the two boys, spread its great wings, and took off into the heavy wind. John forced the window shut, letting Sherlock stare open‒mouthed at the letter he'd just received.

"So, that's how it comes…" John mused.

The emerald writing on the envelope was undeniably written with a female hand. The script was precise and the ink glittered in the sunlight.  _No doubt written with a quill_ , Sherlock deduced. The paper, no,  _parchment_ was smooth beneath the touch of his fingers.

"What are you waiting for?" John was bewildered that his friend hadn't already torn the envelope open. "Read it!" The crest of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry stood out boldly against the paleness of the parchment, like blood versus flesh. Sherlock unstuck the waxy seal from the opening and pushed the flap up, revealing a second piece of parchment inside. His heartbeat raced rapidly in his chest. Surely John could hear it next to him…

The letter was removed casually from its protection shield, and Sherlock read the words aloud to John, despite him glancing over his shoulder.

_Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

_Term begins on September 1st. We await your owl by no later than July 31st._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall_

_Deputy Headmistress_

Sherlock had received his letter. However, time was ticking and there was only a week and a half till the deadline. John still needed to be given his letter. And the only possible explanation that he hadn't received one was a legitimate but ludicrous reason, because all the letters were always sent out at the same time.

But at least they were smart enough creatures to find their destinations eventually. That was the key word:  _eventually._

The owl carrying John's letter had assumedly gotten lost, but no one could confirm that to be true.

* * *

John kept eagerly awaiting the arrival of his letter over the following week. Sherlock had simply refused to send an owl back until his friend had the same invitation in his hand, but John made him send his response a few days later. "It's no big deal," John lied, watching the owl soar off into the summer breeze. "I knew I wasn't going to get one anyway…"

Sherlock was also rather ticked off at the thought of an owl living in his bedroom for over a week, but the positive side of things was that the wild creature got its own food and didn't pester him all the time. He claimed he didn't need another living animal disturbing his presence, unless he personally owned an owl like Mycroft did. He was pleased when it flew off on its long journey back to the castle, returning him back to his peace and quiet, the response letter tied securely to its stubby leg.

It was one Sunday that John rested blissfully on his bed when a distraction kept him from his hobby. He read the words on the pages of  _Hogwarts: A History_ repeatedly over and over, still keeping his mind on the absence of his letter from the school. He flipped back and forth with the pages containing the information on Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin, wondering what would happen if he was possibly sorted into the wrong house.

 _I'm definitely not a Ravenclaw,_  John told himself for the millionth time.  _I'm not smart enough._

Something flew outside his window out of the corner of his eye. He sprang from his bed, hands pressed firmly against the glass. Moments later, the owl faded into view from a considerable distance away. And  _with only two days left to spare!_ He was beginning to lose hope.

He was sprinting, his legs powering through and his brain urging him to continue on. He told himself to keep his joints bending, his arms swinging, and his heart pumping. He didn't stop till he reached the familiar front door; number five. He tapped three times with the brass knocker, breathing very heavily and gathering fresh air into his lungs.

Mycroft Holmes appeared behind the door. John tried not to roll his eyes, but asked wildly, "Sherlock! Is Sherlock home? I want to talk to him." The paper in his hand flapped flimsily as his hand motions cut through the air.

"Yes," Mycroft said, his drawling voice alarmed. "I'll go get him." He shut the door in John's face and the blond heard a muffled voice behind the barrier. He put his hands on his knees, bending over to try and collect more oxygen.

The door creaked open on its hinges once more not twenty seconds later and John bolted upright, adjusting his clothes. The body of Sherlock Holmes emerged from the depths of the front hall, his hair extremely messy and his blazer hanging off his right shoulder.

"Hey, John," he said, waving.

"It came," the shorter boy projected, before the younger Holmes brother could speak. "I got my letter."

* * *

"Behave yourself, you understand?"

"Yes, Mum. I remember everything you told me. I'll be polite." John adjusted the buttons on his jacket and stared into his mother's face. She was ghostly white, her normal skin tone.

"Do you have your phone?" John nodded and pulled it out of his pocket just for proof. Before concluding up her goodbyes, the mother slid a tiny silver key into his closed palm. She shook it and stared into her son's electrifying eyes, and John nodded as he understood what the key would open.

"Alright." His mother brushed off his shoulder blades and turned her son's coat collar up.

"Mum!" Watson said, embarrassed at her priming his appearance. Sherlock stood watching and snickering at the entrance to what looked like an ancient hotel with rust blotting the front door, which squeaked on its ancient hinges. Harriet spied from behind her mother's back, arms crossed in frustration and secret jealousy. His mother flattened his blond locks and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, making the eleven‒year‒old blush.

"We'll be back on September 1st to send you off to school. Until then, have fun!" John leapt into her arms for a final hug farewell and she pulled her only son in close.

"I love you, Mum," John whispered into her ear. Her soothing words came back with the exact same message. Turning to depart, she shooed Harriet off in front of her, all the while waving back at John. Watson watched his family turn the last corner, undoubtedly going to wait at the nearest train station to catch the next ride home back into the suburbs of London.

"Ready now, are we?" Mycroft came into view behind the front door, a smirk on his face. A shiny badge was pinned to his chest in the colors of emerald and silver with the letter  _P_  engraved on the front.

"Shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock interjected, punching his teenage brother on the arm. John growled and flattened his coat collar, brushing his silky blond hair closer to his head. A crumbled message written on a piece of paper sat in the palm of his hand.

"Do you have your list?" Sherlock asked, appearing at John's side. One of his long, thin hands rested on his friend's shoulder.

"Both," John remarked, digging into his jeans' back pocket and seeking for his list of school supplies. "Ha!" he exclaimed, pulling out the parchment, which had been replaced back into the envelope in which it came. Watson craned his neck up to see a rusty black sign dangling a few feet above his head, rocking back and forth in the mild wind. The gold letters on the dusty, painted black wood read  _The Leaky Cauldron._

"Right then," Sherlock said, slapping him on the back. "Let's get your trunk upstairs to our room, then we can go scope out Diagon Alley."

* * *

"May I ask why we are in a deserted room with nothing but brick walls all around?"

"Oh, you'll see." Sherlock smirked, raising his eyebrows repeatedly up and down. "Mycroft," he turned his attention to his older brother, a sneer tugging at his lips, "you do it. I don't know how," he explained, rather unwillingly.

"Very well, dear brother." Mycroft offered the younger Holmes a smile but took it back instantaneously. The oldest of the three grasped the handle of his devoted umbrella and juggled in back and forth in his hands. He twirled it once or twice, almost intentionally smacking his brother in the process, and then held it inches before the rear wall.

"I'm going to learn how to do this one day," Sherlock whispered to his buddy.

The pattern flew out of John's head as soon as he tried to deliver it to his brain. Mycroft tapped a sum of seven bricks haphazardly, all of which were different sizes and had various dents in them. Once the tip of Mycroft's umbrella released itself from the wall, the drummed bricks began to move on their own, pushing further into the fence. The cement holding the bricks together seemed to have disappeared right before his eyes.

The bricks shifted places with others, propelling away from the center where Mycroft stood. When they had secured themselves back into fresh places, the wall looked as though nothing had happened when it in fact had transformed into a red archway; except there was a long, narrow street stretching far off in the distance with various shops, restaurants, and wizards dodging in and out of view in a place where it literally shouldn't have been located.

"John," Sherlock said, turning to see the look on his friend's face, "welcome to Diagon Alley."

* * *

The building looked like it would collapse at all second. The large pillars could fit at least five of him inside easily, and each floor atop the one just below was slanted in an opposite direction. John could wrap his arms around the perimeter of one of the columns and they would remain straight because the poles were so large in size. The bank, which was located at the very end of the main street, had great doors under archways, and the capital letters on the balcony beneath the second floor read  _Gringotts._

"You'll collect your money from your vault in here," Sherlock explained. "Oh, and don't be alarmed. Goblins work here."

" _What?"_  John let off some sort of shiver. The enormous front doors swung open on their hinges, revealing a front hall with a high‒domed ceiling and several crystal chandeliers. The two eleven‒year‒olds followed closely behind Mycroft, all the while John's nerves growing in the pit of his stomach.

"What's your vault number?" the brunette nudged him, and the blond checked the handy information written on the note his mother gave him. "347," was the number he came back with.

"Good," Sherlock nodded. "Mine's 221," he added, turning his attention to the goblin at the front desk and depositing his tiny golden vault key.

* * *

"So, where do you want to head off to first?" Sherlock asked. The two boys stood outside the great bank, scanning the scene of the crowded alley bustling with various‒aged wizards. Their pockets were full of clinking coins, weighing them down. Mycroft had abandoned them, attending to his own business and searching for his own expensive school supplies. "He's too busy with Ministry matters," Sherlock entertained John, mimicking Mycroft's tone and trying to act superior.

"I don't know…" John whisked, checking the items he needed on his list. "I suppose we should get our wands first, since those are most important." The taller friend agreed and led the way in the direction in which they'd come from originally, dodging through adults and young kids who wanted to peek in every shop window with their piggy eyes.

"There's  _Potage's Cauldron Shop_ ," Sherlock said, pointing to a dark and gloomy store to their left. "And that's where we'll get our robes,  _Madam Malkin's._ "

"Ah, here we are." This shop was by far the oldest of the entire street. The paint was peeling and cracking overall from the bulging walls, along with torn gold letters, educating  _Ollivander's: Makers Of Fine Wands Since 382 B.C._ Sherlock held the door open for John, and the shorter boy muttered his thanks as he stepped into the deserted business shop.

A thick layer of dust covered most of the items scattered around the shop, and a cracked bell made a  _ding_  noise as the two boys stepped in the front door. No one was in sight, and the lanterns were set to the dimmest stage they could ever encounter. The dull light sent a ghostly shadow over the aisles stacked with boxes filled with wooden wands.

"Mr. Ollivander!" Sherlock called into the abandoned darkness. Almost instantly, a man appeared, flying into the front room on a sliding shelf ladder. He was almost impossible to make out in the space between two shelves while wearing grey robes, but the old man came to the aid of the two boys almost instantly.

"Mr. Holmes," he spoke in a deep subtle voice, stepping off the last step. "I was wondering when you would show up to buy your wand. I've been expecting you." Sherlock stood with his arms behind his back and looked the old man up and down, no disbelief making deductions. Mr. Ollivander stepped into a clear view so John could see his features better. Grayish‒white hair grew from his scalp and his chin was slightly scruffy. Bags drooped under his eyes from tireless years of working and attending Hogwarts himself as a Ravenclaw when he was young. What were most detectable at first sight were his eyes. They were pale‒silver and hard, examining as if he was digging into the boy's soul. "And who might this be?" he asked, focusing on the blond.

"I'm John Watson," the shorter boy said, shaking Mr. Ollivander's hand.

"Pleasure to meet you both." He was a polite man, and suddenly he raised his finger, a thought springing to his mind. "Let me see what I can find." He shuffled his feet off back into the depths of his shop, searching through an endless number of piles of boxes. He returned not a minute later, holding a long, skinny box before his chest.

"Try this one," the wand maker suggested, handing the box over to John's small hands. He was hesitant at first, as if someone had just spelled supercalifragilisticexpialidocious and had blown his mind so much he couldn't speak. But his eyes weren't wide and he remained calm, holding in the urge to jump up and down excitedly for just testing out a wand for the first time. His fingers pulled the cover off the box, and a dark brown wand was uncovered beneath. "Ten inches, Ash wood, Unicorn core." John took the smooth wood in his hand, lifting it from the box as if it were glass.

"Test it," Ollivander urged him, waving his hands. John gave the wand a small flick, but all the effect it had was rustling the papers on Ollivander's desk.

"No, not that one." Ollivander shook his head and made his way to the stacks of wands in the far right corner. John put the unsuccessful wand back into the proper box and set it down on the table.

"Maybe this one will do. Ten inches, Dragon core, Larch wood." John brushed the thick dust off the cover of the box, coughing as it entered his throat. Sherlock had ventured over to the display window, tilting his head and scanning his eyes over the surfaces of the different varieties of wands.

"Is it supposed to feel heavy?" John asked curiously, trying to lift it up and down. "It feels…I dunno, warmer than the last one, but it seems quite heavy."

"Then that one won't do," Ollivander rejected, shaking his head. John stacked the second box on top of the first one, wondering how many would end up on the table by the time he'd chosen his wand. It was kinda fascinating how one tiny difference in a wand meant so much, like how he'd just experienced the weight ratio in two wizard tools.

"Am I ever going to be able to choose one?" John asked the wand maker, who shuffled about near the side walls in search of more boxes. He chuckled, turning to face the boy as Sherlock too looked up to fetch for the answer from over the blond's shoulder.

"Mr. Watson," the kind old man began, and John smiled inside as Ollivander remembered his last name so quickly. "You my boy have that statement backwards."

"What?" Clearly the shortest human was lost.

Ollivander picked up another case from a slanted shelf but replaced it immediately. None of the wands fancied his interest to serve for the young wizard. "You don't choose your wand. The wand chooses the wizard."

"But…how does that work?"

"Well, you see, wands have special abilities. At least, more than you think they do. When they're placed in a wizard's hand, they act like they have a mind of their own and select a wizard they believe they can cooperate with easily. They form a permanent bond with its owner, linking onto the person's personality to perform the most advanced and precise magic it can." John blinked a few times, going cross‒eyed from the amount of ' _P'_ s' that were exposed in that one sentence. "And don't let the stack of unusable wands on my desk put you down. I've had many brand new wizards just like your bright self come in and have to go through almost a quarter of my shop before we finally found the correct one.

That piped‒up the eleven‒year‒old's feelings. "I see," he responded, watching Mr. Ollivander rush by him to the other side of the shop. He disappeared behind a row of filing cabinet, leaving John to reconsider their discussion.

"Aha!" The wand maker nearly screamed from the back of his shop, making Sherlock and John jump unaware on the wooden tiled floor.

"I do believe this one will suit you." Another grey box was once again in John's grasp, and when he took off the cover he felt some lurching sensation in his limbs. He felt some mental connection spreading from the ends of his fingers through the wood he held, like a spark was set off. Sure enough, when John gave it a wave, a lukewarm feeling spread throughout the shop.

"Dragon core, Hawthorne wood, eleven inches," Ollivander announced, seeing the gasp on John's face. "Hawthorne wands don't choose wizards very often; for they only bond with some of the most talented wizards who have the skill to wield them. The truly skilled accompany them with its healing powers, otherwise unfortunate things can occur." John didn't think he would ever become a talented wizard, but the fact that his wand had healing powers reminded him of his mum.

He didn't return his wand back to its box for a while, but instead examined the dark reddish‒brown wood with wonder.

"Dragon cores produce the strongest magic," Ollivander continued, now searching for Sherlock's wand. "So if Hawthorne wood and a Dragon core meet with the wrong wizard, disaster could strike." John gulped loudly. "But no worry," Ollivander informed, "I can see you have a strong bravery about you and have a stout heart." John caught Sherlock's eye, and the taller boy smiled and winked down at him.

"Perhaps this will suit you, Mr. Holmes. Your brother was very difficult in his day, mind you." Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes. He took hold of the black box from Ollivander's shaking hand and pulled off the cover, opening the protector.

This wand was a very sharp shade of black. Even with the dim light a white glow reflected off the surface. "Thirteen inches, Dragon core, Yew wood." Some feeling of dread surfed through Sherlock veins when he picked it up, and a frown crossed his face. He flicked the wand anyway, expecting disastrous results.

The trial spell rebounded off the desk and hit one of the lamps, exploding the glass. Sherlock scooted back alarmed and hastily returned the wand back to its box. He piled his first wand box with John's discarded ones, trying to act as if nothing happened.

"Hmm, seems like you might be just as difficult." Sherlock felt insulted but muted his comeback nonetheless. The shop keeper stepped back up onto the rickety ladder and pushed off a shelf hard with his foot. He disappeared from view seconds later. "I think this will do." Ollivander came back a few minutes later after the two first years heard a loud series of shuffles and bangs from the depths of the aisles.

The wheat gold wand had a slightly bumpy texture at its base but a smooth section beneath that to interact with Sherlock's long fingers. There was a silvery shadow about the surface and a scarlet red glow deep within the core. "Sycamore wood, Phoenix core, fourteen inches." When Sherlock waved the wand, a powerful warmth expanded through the shop. "Phoenix cores are very rare. I haven't sold many…"

"Precisely," Sherlock stared, examining his brand new wand.

* * *

They paid Mr. Ollivander with the correct amount of Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts, thanked him and exited the shop, their pockets slightly lighter. The boys pushed through the crowded street, debating where to shop for more supplies next.

"I suppose we need our robes now," Sherlock pointed out as they passed a group of witches wearing purple cloaks and selling lollipops.

"I suppose so," John admitted. "Maybe we could just make our way down the street and stop in whichever shops we need to?" Sherlock thought this to be reasonable and skimmed over the items on their supply lists. A bunch of books, robes, tools for potions class, and…

"Dress robes?" Sherlock's tone was stern and almost mortified, and he shook John with a clump of his jacket fabric. "What do we need dress robes for?"

 


	5. An Army Salute

**Chapter Five**

An Army Salute 

* * *

Sherlock's stomach grumbled. He clutched his angry belly, racking his brain for restaurants that both he and John would enjoy. "Shall we get a bite to eat?" he offered, trying to hide the rumble from John's ears.

"Good idea," Watson concluded. "Know any good places to eat?"

"Yes," Holmes shared, straightening his posture. "There's one just up the road."

* * *

 _Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor_ was a very kaleidoscopic and colorful shop, with bright shades of pink, purple, blue, and green all over the building. Tables with looped chairs were scattered among the outside, with matching pink umbrellas to block the boiling sun. Sherlock and John chose the table closest to the end of Diagon Alley, happily enjoying a banana split together. Their utensils clanged against the glass bowl every time one of them reached in to scoop up a spoonful of ice cream. They both seemed to be taking little amounts at a time to be polite and offer the other more, but it only made their snacking process slower.

"So, what do you think so far?" John swallowed his mouthful of chocolate ice cream and gazed at Sherlock.

"I think everything is fantastic!" he reported, and Sherlock was glad to see that John was already fond of the wizarding world.

"Can I see your wand? I want to examine it." John nodded and reached into his shopping bag, revealing his wand box from within. Sherlock's long fingers scanned the surface, wiping over the perfectly polished wood.

"It's certainly very sharp looking," he pronounced, placing it gently back into the box. He slid the bag with his foot back next to John's chair.

"Why don't we get our books next?" John suggested, looking at the longest section on his list. "I thought I saw a bookstore on our way here."

"Mycroft said we should buy our books from  _Flourish And Blotts._  They reputably sell the best books. I believe it's…that way," he said, pointing just to the right of  _Ollivander's._

* * *

"Excuse me," John asked politely, tapping on a worker's shoulder. "Can you show me where I might find these books?" He presented the man with his list of supplies, and the adult automatically was aware of their condition.

"Ah, first years are you? Hogwarts? Right,  _The Standard Book Of Spells (Grade 1)_ by Miranda Goshawk. Follow me." The employee meandered them through countless rows of books, stacking more as they searched on, and the piles in the boys' hands became excessive in a short period of time.

"Do we have them all yet?" Sherlock complained, after the sixth book was placed in his tower.

"No," John told him. Sherlock looked annoyed, crossing and rolling his eyes roughly. "We still need  _Magical Theory_ by Adalbert Waffling and  _The Dark Forces: A Guide To Self_ _‒_ _Protection._ "

"Let me get those for you," the employee offered, noting the pile of books at both pairs of feet.

"Would you?" John asked, relief in his tone. "Thank you very much."

* * *

"I think my arms are going to fall off," John whined, flopping onto the uneven bed back at  _The Leaky Cauldron_."How do they expect us to walk around school with all these books?"

"I dunno. I suppose it's easy as pie for the older students." Sherlock was repacking his clothes for school since Mycroft had forced him too. He claimed there would be more room if Sherlock's trunk was neater.

"So, what do we still have to buy?" Sherlock asked, handling a blazer like it was a kitten and rolling it into a ball.

"Well, we still need our robes, both normal and dress robes, for what we don't know yet. We need our cauldrons and instruments used in potion making, and then we have the option of getting a pet."

"My parents said they were buying me an owl," Sherlock said from the opposite side of the room. "That's one more thing off my list. Tell you what," he said, throwing a pair of dress pants onto a chair and pointing at John, "I'll go get the cauldrons and things needed for Potions tomorrow while you go find yourself a pet. Then we can meet up later to get our robes fitted. Deal?"

"Deal," said Watson, leaping up from the bed. The blond paced the room a minor number of times before heading back to his dresser. He had stacked his books and wand on the tippy top of the piece of furniture and double checked to make sure he still had all of his supplies.

"Eww…" he heard Sherlock say over his shoulder, disgusted. "There's mold in this corner."

* * *

"That one there is a snowy owl. They're personally the most graceful owls in my opinion and are very loyal to their owners." A very good‒natured witch was showing John around  _Eeylops Owl Emporium_ , showing off the various breeds of owls and providing him with information. John didn't think a toad would become very friendly with him, and he wasn't very fond of cats. So, his only option remaining narrowed down to an owl. Besides, they had the most benefits for wizards of being a pet, including delivering the mail.

"What about that one?" John asked, pointing to a white and cream colored bird near the ceiling.

"That's a barn owl. One of the more graceful ones too." John's eyes seemed to be locked on the bird. Its big brown eyes were wandering all over the store and its feathers were stunning in the light's rays.

"That's a female, mind you," the witch interrupted, spying in the direction John was looking.

"I'll take her."

John handed over fourteen Galleons to the witch at the counter and left the emporium, his new owl in her cage clutched tightly under his arm. When he stepped outside the shop's front door, the eleven‒year‒old scooted to his right to check the time on his watch. 15:26. He squatted down, knowing that he had quite some time before he had to meet up with Sherlock again and stared deep into his owl's eyes. They were amber, and her feathers were soft and fluffy at the touch of his skin.

"What should I name you?" he asked her opinion, as her head twitched in all directions. "What would be a good name for you?" He pondered many names in his furrowed brain, throwing away ones that were too human‒like or sounded silly.

"Athiel," he resolved after a bit of time. "I'll call you Athiel. I know it's a bit strange, but it'll have to do." She hooted merrily and John stuck his finger into her cage. She nipped the end daintily, showing a sign that she already like him. Satisfied, John picked up Athiel's cage from the stone pathway and headed in the direction of  _Madam Malkin's_. After he dodged in and out of the swarm of people, darting past a wizard holding an enormous cauldron, he reached his destination to find Sherlock already there waiting patiently for him. Two bags were at his feet, obviously containing their cauldrons and instruments for Potions.

"Nice bird you've got there," Holmes remarked, peering through the bars of the cage.  _Smooth feathers, small spots running down the spine, flexible claws, female…_ "What's her name?"

John wasn't even going to ask how he knew she was a female. "Athiel. I know, it might be random, but I couldn't think of anything else that I liked —"

"I didn't say I didn't like it…" Sherlock butted in, looking up at the slouching boy. John frowned and crossed his arms. "Come on," Sherlock whispered, squeezing the blond's upper arm. "Let's go get our robes fitted."

* * *

"This is ridiculous," Sherlock grumbled as a witch was measuring the length of his arm. She was about as round as a stick, and her hair had dark purple spikes in it.

"Wow, you're tall for eleven years old," she stated, stepping onto a stool to become eye level with him. "Five foot four," she told an enchanted quill, and it recorded his height onto a piece of parchment.

"This one is four foot ten and a half," recalled the other witch who was calculating the circumference of John's hips. He looked mortified and tried arching has back as far away as possible from the adult. "Hold still!" the witch yelled at him, and Sherlock couldn't help but roll his eyes at his clownish friend.

Sherlock glanced in the far left corner of the shop where a bright blonde‒haired witch sat scribbling notes behind a desk.  _No doubt the owner of the shop._ Her lime green robes were flung over the back of her chair and her glasses were perched on the edge of her nose.

A threaded needle wove its way in and out of thin, airy fabric. It finished sewing a gap under the arm of the new robes and the spiky‒haired witch held them out before Sherlock. "Try these on." The brunette did as he was told, sliding his arms through the sleeves and feeling the silkiness of the cloth against his skin. He adjusted the clamp, fastening it together and checking to make sure it wasn't choking his throat. He felt the rim of the robes brush just above his ankle, and the sleeve cut off just above his hand.

"What do you think, Madam Malkin?" the purple‒haired witch fished for an opinion on Sherlock's new cloak.

"Those look wonderful, Cynthia," the Madam complimented.

"I need dress robes too," Sherlock pointed out, cutting into their conversation.

"So do I," came the audacious voice to Sherlock's left.

"You're not done yet!" John's witch was getting frustrated with him and she pushed him back onto the stool. "Put these on!" John gingerly pulled on his robes, eyeing the irritation on her face. The younger boy's uniform cut off slightly lower than Sherlock's and about a centimeter of the fabric covered his hands.

"That'll have to do," the witch concluded, shaking off and ignoring the extra bit of fabric covering John's palms.

"Ah! Dress robes. There's some in the back if you want to take a look. We have quite a variety. Just take a look and let us know which ones you'd like to purchase."

There were an endless number of rows lined with dress robes all hung up next to each other, and John followed Sherlock questionably behind while the brunette blurted out rude remarks.

"These are hideous!" Sherlock commented, sliding copper dress robes behind red ones so they were hidden from sight.

"Oh come on, Sherlock," John said, searching through smaller sizes. "They're not all that bad." He held up a bonnet knowing Sherlock would flip, just to make fun of him.

"Oh shut up, John."

"I suppose you want plain black ones then?"

"With maybe just a splash of color," Sherlock added, spotting the black robes at the end of the row. He sorted through the suits of different fabrics, testing them on his fingers for the right touch and all the while noting the hint of colors or the shape of the outfit.

"Those are yours," Sherlock said, pointing over his shoulder. John didn't have time to lift his head and glance in the proper direction to catch the gesture.

"Which ones?"

"Those." The navy blue cloak stood out among a group of rose pink dress robes, and the feel of the fabric felt smooth and yielding on John's nails. He knew those were the one's Holmes was referring to, because he would not be caught dead wearing pink formal clothes in public.

"It's not felt," John pointed out, "but it's not silk either…"

"Maybe it's just plain cotton." The deduction was obvious.

"I suppose so…" There was a trim of striking black starting from the base and stitched all the way up, curving around the collar. A matching blue tie was wrapped around the hook, and there was a layer of silver sparkling through the cloth.

"Why these ones?" John asked, and Sherlock turned to face him.

"Because they…match your eyes." There was a reference to embarrassment in his cheeks, and Sherlock turned away as he blushed. Watson took in his friend's suggestion in consideration and removed the hanger from the rack. He held the robes up so the collar covered his neck.

"What do you reckon?" he asked, indicating the gown to Sherlock.

"I think they'd suit you perfectly," he agreed, smiling. "I think I'll do these," he added, picking out a set of plain black dress robes with a forest green trim around the edge like John's. "I'm not sure about the black bow tie though —"

"Bow ties are cool," John enlightened him, slugging his best friend on the upper arm.

They waited patiently for their dress robes to be sewn to the right proportions and gathered up the many sets of robes they needed for school days. Then, they thanked Madam Malkin and headed back to  _The Leaky Cauldron_ , Sherlock carrying several bags and John hoisting up his owl cage every so often.

* * *

"Come on, John!" Sherlock urged him on, checking over his shoulder to make sure he kept up. Both of the Holmes brothers raced in front of him, pushing carts of their own. John tried to catch up with them, but his legs weren't long enough to travel as far of a distance as theirs could. The three boys dodged in and out of passing bodies, racing past columns built in the middle of the long platform.

King's Cross Station was packed as usual, with hundreds of people arriving from one train to hop onto another, or with business men preparing to leave for work at a specific company. John's trunk banged up and down on the cart he pushed in front of him, the initials  _J.W._  engraved in blue on the cover. His owl hooted happily in her cage and watched the scene with her amber eyes while he sped on.

John came to an abrupt halt before nearly crashing his cart into Sherlock's legs. Mycroft towered in height over the two eleven‒year‒olds, and he gestured his head over to where a family of three stood. John had no hesitation before his feet carried him to where his family stood, leaving his cart abandoned next to the two Holmes siblings. What was waiting by his mum's side was a surprise he never thought he'd see.

"Dad!" He embraced his arms and his father knelt down to accept his hug, the low chuckle coming from his mouth. Several normal citizens nearby had stopped and were clapping for the reunion, seeing the love from a long time departed family relationship come back together again. One woman with her three‒year‒old son actually had tears in her eyes, while an older man pressed their hands to their hearts and watched John squeeze the life out of his returning father. It was such a delightful sight to see that even John thought Sherlock was happy and clapping for him. The man's Army uniform was newly washed and it smelled of fresh soap as John inhaled deeply through his nose over his shoulder. He felt his father run his fingers through his hair, and John reached over to plant a kiss on his cheek.

John let go so he could look at his dad properly. "Didn't think I'd skip sending you off to school, did you?" the parent asked in his usual deep, comforting voice. John had his hair, except the soldier's hair was much more untidy and had more streaks of brown mixed in it. His skin was very tan.  _Probably from being outside so much._

"You didn't retire just for me, did you?" John asked, hoping the answer was no.

And he was right. "No," the man laughed, "I think it was time to come back home anyways. I deserve to be here. And I would much rather be home with my family." His mother stroked her son's head and smiled down at the wizard. Harriet still looked cross with her brother, and John winked at her. She rolled her eyes, a usual reaction from a typical arrogant teenager.

"Here," John said, pulling out his cell phone and handing it to his dad. "I won't need it. I'll have to send mail the…magic way, you know." His father gave John a small smile, rose to his feet, and wrapped his arm around his wife's shoulders.

"John!" Sherlock yelled, checking the time on the train station clock, "we only have seven minutes left."

"Coming!" he shot back. "Right," he sighed, turning back to his supportive family. "I'll keep in touch. I promise. I love you." His mother and father both bent down to hug him at the same time, and John collected as much of the family warmth as he could. His father gave him the Army salute, and the smaller twin happily responded. Before heading back over to where Sherlock leaned on a column, John flicked two fingers off his forehead to Harriet, and she couldn't help but smirk back at her brother.

"Ready?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah. The ticket says Platform 9 ¾, but there isn't one —"

"Yes there is," Sherlock corrected, indicating his head at the wall twenty feet away, between platforms nine and ten.

"You're…kidding me, right?"

"No, John," Mycroft interrupted, crossing his arms. "You run through that barrier and you'll be on the correct platform."

"But, we'll crash, won't we?" John's face looked scared.

"No we won't," Sherlock insured him. "Trust me." He squeezed John's wrist.

"If you insist," John concluded.

"Just follow me. Lead the way, Mycroft." The Slytherin looked thrilled that they were actually moving, and he ran straight at the brick wall without hunching up. When he should have slammed into it and crashed, instead he passed right through as if the wall wasn't there at all.

Sherlock went next. He pushed his cart in front of him and slightly narrowed his eyes as the wall became closer and closer. He too passed through without any trouble.

John hesitated, shook his head thinking what he was about to do was mental, and pushed his cart foot by foot towards the wall. He squeezed his eyes shut just before his cart was going to hit the barrier and expected the blow to come full on.

But there wasn't one. For a fraction of a second, the world went completely black around him, and then he found himself exit out from the other side of the wall. It looked as though he had simply walked around the brick wall between platforms nine and ten when in fact he'd passed straight through a solid wall.

He directed his cart to his right, and when he turned the corner, an enchanting sight greeted his view. A glistening scarlet and black train sat on the tracks, steam billowing and leaking from the pipes in the roof and under the wheels. Gold letters on the side of the engine read  _The Hogwarts Express._  Hundreds of students roamed the platform, saying goodbye to their families or packing their belongings onto the train.

A small billboard was connected to the brick wall John had just flown out of. A clock was nailed in the exact center and the Hogwarts school logo was right above it. John smiled as he read the words.  _Platform 9 ¾._

"Come on," Sherlock voice echoed, disrupting John's fantasies. "Let's get on the train before all the compartments are taken."

They left their carts in a section on the platform where the rest were and worked their way through the crowd. It was difficult getting their trunks and owls onto their mode of transportation, but they managed to board the train after some difficulty.

Mycroft left them to deal with themselves, heading off towards the back of the train to meet with his few friends. Sherlock and John made their way down the halls of the compartments, finally reaching an empty room in the third train car.

"This will have to do," Sherlock said, opening the door. He threw his trunk onto the right bench and set his owl down in the corner closest to the glass window looking out into the hallway. He heaved his heavy trunk over his head, placing it on the rack above the benches bolted to the wall. John had some trouble and Sherlock saw him struggling.

"Want some help?" he offered.

"If you wouldn't mind…" John felt ashamed and backed away, hiding his hands behind his back. Sherlock lifted John's trunk easier than his own and placed it on the opposite rack. It helped that he had such height for his age.

"And with two minutes to spare," Sherlock smirked, glancing at the time on his watch. He settled himself on one of the green cushiony benches and rested his long legs on the seat next to him. John sat down across from his buddy and stared out the window. Kids were rushing to say farewells to their parents one final time before boarding the train.

Students of various ages passed their compartment, sometimes giving them looks because they were first years. Elizer, Sherlock's owl, nibbled noisily on a few owl pellets. John's owl had fallen asleep with her head under her wing, breathing evenly.

Somewhere in the station a muffled clock chimed eleven. The train suddenly gave a lurch forward, the carts behind it being dragged carelessly. The vehicle began to pick up speed gradually, and soon the faces of the waving parents became blurred shapes. The train turned a final corner, and evidently the station was lost from view.

The train sped along the country side, and the hills, valleys, and trees swept by sooner than you could observe all their details. The greens swirled together with the blue of the sky, and it was like a painting having water splashed onto it.

"You okay, John? You're awfully quiet…" Sherlock's voice came in a whisper, but there was still that sweet hint of sadness.

"Yeah." John curled his knees up to his chest, twirling his Pocket Sneakoscope in his hand. "Just thinking about the sorting ceremony."

Sherlock snorted and couldn't help but laugh at his friend. "Relax," he comforted, "we still have a few hours."

"Well, I know I'm not a Ravenclaw. I don't have the brains. You are though."

"We'll see about that," Sherlock questioned, debating whether he would be sorted as a silver serpent or a bronze eagle.

"I don't know. I guess I just want a good adventure this year, you know? Our first big one together."

Sherlock smiled again, spinning his wand in between his fingers so it released small sparks. All he replied was, "Typical Gryffindor you are."


	6. The Apple

** Chapter Six **

The Apple

* * *

The Hogwarts Express puffed itself along the tracks, huffing out steam from its top pipe as it went. Once in a while the train would curve unexpectedly in an oblivious direction, and Sherlock and John had to secure a hand to the shelf next to the window to get a firm grip and not fall off their seats. Misty mountains passed by miles away, their tips hidden by the clouds. John checked his watch. 11:24 A.M. They were only twenty minutes into their journey.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked, noting the way John looked out the window.

"Nothing. Just deciding."

"Deciding?"

"What house I might be in." John twiddled his fingers, bringing his right knee in closer to his chest. He rested his head on the bitter cold glass of the window and felt the hairs on the back of his neck freeze.

"I told you, don't worry about it." Sherlock rolled his eyes so John couldn't see. "I don't see why you're so worried about it. I mean, you're going to be sorted into Gryffindor anyway."

"Yes but what if I'm not though?" John stated, cutting him off. "What if I'm put in Hufflepuff? Or worse, Slytherin —"

"You won't, that's the point. And you can't think Slytherin is bad all the time. Everyone thinks that, but they're some wizards who have such great personalities in real life and are cunning because they want to simply reach a goal. Just to think, Merlin was a Slytherin. And besides, the best part about being a wizard is that you're going to Hogwarts, not what house you're in." A couple red sparks shot out of Sherlock's wand, hit his foot and vanished. Watson thought his friend had brought up a good point, but he was still concerned about the sorting.

"Don't argue with me," John said flatly, his gaze fixed on the ceiling.

Sherlock opened his mouth to shoot a retort back but was cut off by the sound of a door handle clicking open. He got distracted from his wand and followed his eyes beyond his legs to where the door leading out to the hall had opened. A young boy stood proudly in the frame and a girl hid behind his back, nervously peeking into the compartment.

"Hello," he said, in what was a very thick British accent. He looked at both Sherlock and John, curled up closest to the window, feet on the seats. "Blimey the carts are full," he stated, looking away and glancing beyond in the hall. There were still people pushing their way past searching for a place to sit. His eyebrows contracted in disappointment but his face changed when he proceeded to his next question. "Do you mind if we join you?"

"No!" Sherlock nearly shouted, abruptly sitting up in his seat but bending his knees so his feet remained on the bench. "No, not at all. Come in."

"Thanks!" The boy expressed the widest grin John had ever seen. His voice was a lot deeper than it should have been compared to the composition of his face, and his short black hair stuck out about an inch beyond his forehead. He walked with some sort of sassy stride, rocking back and forth with swagger in his hips, the way cool people try to act.

The girl who'd been secretly hiding behind the boy's back was revealed and she slowly lowered her hands from her face. Her blue eyes had a trace of grey in their depths, and she had long ginger hair that was pulled back in a high ponytail. She smiled nervously and waved her hand, and Sherlock honestly thought it was one of the sweetest smiles he'd ever seen besides John's. She took the seat next to the smallest boy as he moved his legs off the bench and brushed off the cushion, offering her a place to sit down.

The boy took the seat beside Sherlock a good foot from his legs and glanced skeptically at the brunette's owl in its cage. The pet stared making strange noises, as though hissing and disliking the boy already.

"Oh, sorry," Sherlock apologized, hopping up from his seat. "I'll move him. May as well get him to shut up too." Sherlock skimmed Elizer's cage over the carpeted floor to rest under the window. Then, he roughly took off his blazer and shoved it over the bars, blurring out the sounds the creature rasped. His favorite purple shirt made his cheekbones stand out more sharply than they ever did. John liked it when Sherlock wore that shirt.

"There. That's better." He rubbed his hands together and sat back in his seat, crossing one leg over the other. Sherlock found John's spheres of ice and his friend made a motion with his eyebrows and head. Sherlock gave John the confused look, so John was forced to start the awkward conversation.

"So —" Lingering silence. John placed his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together and leaning forward. He cocked his head to the side. "What's your name?" He pointed to the guy across from him.

"Oh, my bad," the boy said, leaning in closer to extend his arm out to John. "I didn't introduce myself earlier. My name's Greg. Greg Lestrade." John shook his hand delightedly. "But I prefer to be called Lestrade," he added quickly. Lestrade's hand was bony and buff. John almost felt his fingers feel crushed under the pressure of the boy's grip.

"What about you?" John asked, turning to the ginger‒haired girl and massaging his hand so Lestrade couldn't see.

"Molly Hooper." She no doubt had a British accent as well, and she spoke as though someone would hurt her if she shouted too loudly. Her cheeks went pink as John gave her his heart‒warming smile, and she stared down at her lap in shame.

Lestrade pushed his hands off his knees and retrieved his trunk from the rack above his head. He set it directly in the middle of the floor and opened the lid, revealing the contents inside. He had packed his trunk worse than Sherlock had. The brunette snooped over Lestrade's shoulder to make deductions about the boy.

"You've been to Scotland Yard quite recently," he remarked. Lestrade twisted on his knee, giving Sherlock a look of disorientation.

"Sherlock…" John warned, his tone rising ever so slightly.

"What?" he replied matter‒of‒factly. "I'm just enouncing the self‒explanatory."

"You're just showing off —"

Lestrade butted in. "How did you know?"

"I noticed," Sherlock corrected, indicating at the heap of a mess in his trunk. "The jacket in the bottom right corner has a badge on it. There's also a sticker on the bottom side of the suitcase, visible over your head. I could conclude a lot of things about you if you'd like."

Lestrade goggled at John, seeking for help. The shortest boy shrugged and rolled his eyes. "You get used to it after a while."

"Like…what?" Lestrade was hesitant to ask, but wonder filled his brain and he was keen to know. Sherlock began to observe Lestrade from head to toe, examining and making conclusions about the wizard he'd met not five minutes ago.

"You live in central London," Sherlock began, his mouth moving almost faster than he blinked. "You're an only child who has both a mum and a dad but you like your father more. He was a wizard, but he's been hiding it from you for many years. He takes you to Scotland Yard occasionally just to take his mind off the subject of magic since he's an inspector there. Your mum's not too thrilled about your capabilities to produce magic yet she still loves you all the same. You're very brave and very strong, judging by the fact that you almost crushed John's fingers a moment ago." Lestrade gaped at John who slowly turned away, fixing his view out the window and pretending not to notice or be listening.

"You're also very serious about things yet you're known to be a joker most of the time. Hence the fake rat in your trunk. You're very sociable but tend to not keep quiet in public, thus getting yourself into trouble a lot. There you go." Sherlock finished with a nod of his head and went back to fidgeting with his wand, as if he'd never been interrupted. There was another long silence in which nobody spoke or moved, except Lestrade who stared terrified at John's tiny hands.

He didn't stay terrified for long though. In fact, his face seemed to change ages in a split second. He went from looking fourteen to looking ten, like when a mime passes their hand over their face and changes expressions.

"How the hell did you find all that out?" He slammed the trunk lid closed without meaning to, causing everyone to jump at the sudden sound.

"Once you've ruled out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true." That was what Sherlock managed to say after he'd calmed down.

"Okay, that was…insane." Lestrade clicked the hooks locked on his trunk, and the red initials  _G.L._  shined splendidly on the polished wood. Sherlock shifted his feet weirdly on the carpet, looking down at Lestrade on the floor outlandishly. "Whatever you just did, that was pretty remarkable…"

Sherlock contracted his eyebrows, looking slightly baffled at Lestrade.  _Not many people comment on my remarks,_  he thought. His arms were crossed and his left knee was pulled up to his chest. His right leg stretched out normally in front of him on the floor.

"Then again, it was just a bit rude…" Lestrade added, lifting his trunk back in its proper place on the rack. "You noticed all that from my trunk?"

"Problem?" Sherlock questioned, cocking his left eyebrow and giving Lestrade a look.

"Maybe just a little," Lestrade admitted. "Just…wow. What a way to show off I suppose —"

"I'm not showing off, I'm simply taking note of true facts."

"Alright!" John nearly yelled, raising both his hands and nodding his head. He'd been quiet for the start of the ride but lost it at the sight of the two new boys bickering. "Keep calm!"

"And carry on…" Molly had interjected unexpectedly but with a brilliant addition to John's yell and all of them giggled at her funny joke.

"Well, is your hand okay, John?" Greg had continued first after their hilarious noises died down, making sure the youngest in the room didn't have an injury.

"Oh, yeah. Don't worry about it," John assured. "You only really cracked my knuckle, and I do that once in a while, so it's fine."

Molly suggested that the four of them properly introduce themselves and made each boy explain a little about their families. "So," she said shakily, nudging John on the arm, "are you and Sherlock friends?"

"Yeah, I've known him for about four months now. Didn't know he lived next to my neighborhood until he showed up in the field in between the houses. He's the one who introduced me to Hogwarts and magic and stuff." John fumbled nervously with his hands, the butterflies fluttering crazily in his stomach. He caught his best friend's eyes and gave him a small smile.

All he knew next was that his head lounged on the cold window, and his thoughts slowly drifted him off into sleep. Of course it was rude, and he wanted to know more about the new kids, but he wasn't grasping any interest. John's eyes began to droop and soon he couldn't hold them up anymore, so he let them shut and drag him off into a peaceful nap.

* * *

When John awoke, he found Lestrade and Molly situated on the floor, playing with what seemed to be a Muggle deck of cards. Sherlock was trying to get Elizer to shut up by stroking his feathers. John stretched out his legs, causing them to travel too far and bump the owl cage on the floor. He yawned, covering his mouth with his hand and being polite.

"You took a long nap," Sherlock mused, slouching back in his chair. Lestrade glanced over his shoulder when the brunette stated the obvious. Molly slapped a pile of cards while Lestrade was distracted, causing him to turn back around and make a gesture with his hands and giving her the  _Are you kidding me?_  look.

"What? It's only been an hour," John inferred, checking the time on his watch. "Ouch," he remarked, twisting his head to stare at the wall where his skull had rested. "Neck hurts."

"Alright, forget this," Lestrade spoke, throwing his cards onto the carpet and forcing himself off the floor. "I heard someone say there was a food cart coming soon. I'm going to get some. Anyone else care for some while I go?"

"Yeah, get me something," John announced, chucking a few Galleons at him. Lestrade was clumsy and failed at snatching them out of the air, the effect being the coins falling to the floor.

"Right," he said, bending over to pick them up and brushing off the top of his t‒shirt. "Sherlock? Molly? You want anything?"

"It doesn't matter," Molly whispered, looking down and blushing. Sherlock didn't move. The right side of his long face was pressed against the window, his cheekbone digging painfully into the glass. Lestrade looked at John for help when no answer came from the tallest boy.

"He doesn't eat," John explained, shrugging his shoulders. "Well, he does but rarely. Get him something just in case. Here," he said, chucking Lestrade another Galleon, which this time he caught in the center of his palm.

"Right," Greg repeated. "Well, I'll be back." His muscular hand clenched the door handle, slid it open to the right, and clicked it shut behind him. Lestrade peeped in both directions before heading towards the back of the train.

Something large and fluffy landed gracefully in John's lap. The blond stirred, getting a shock as the animal sat itself on top of his legs.

"Oh! Sorry!" Molly exclaimed, bringing a hand up to her mouth. She shifted her position on the floor so she sat on her heels. "Come here, Tasha! I'm so sorry she's bothering you…" Molly looked like she'd done something terribly wrong.

"No, it's no big deal," John assured her, shaking off her problem. In fact, John enjoyed having the cat sit in his lap. He stroked behind her ears, making Tasha purr loudly and close her green eyes in appreciation. John had never had a cat at home because his mother was allergic to them, but they had a Bulldog named Gladstone and he adored the pet.

Tasha was a ginger cat with short hair, and her coat had different shades of orange stripes all around from her back to her belly. Her tail was at least a foot long and her fuzzy paws were as white as snow. John scratched under her chin and the kitty opened her large eyes to stare into his. Her flocculent fur felt comfy on his fingers, and Molly gave a small smile to John when she saw the friendly relationship forming.

Just then the door swung open again, but it wasn't Lestrade who'd returned with the sweets. Instead, a very pompous boy stood in the picture, wearing a navy blue suit exquisitely ironed with no wrinkles visible. A girl stood behind his shoulder, looking much older than she actually was. Her short, tight black dress stuck to her body, her high heels were bright red, and she wore far too much makeup for her age. All of the three kids nestled in the compartment honestly thought she was dressed inappropriately and the boy didn't look trustworthy.

Sherlock lifted his head and ignored the view out the window, staring at the boy in the door with suspicion in his eyes. Molly immediately reached out her arms for Tasha, collecting the cat in her arms and taking her seat back next to John. Watson let the girl take her cat back, and Hooper curled in the corner and held her pet close to her chest.

"Well well well," the mysterious boy said in a drawling voice, glancing over his shoulder at the girl with black hair.  _Polished shoes, slicked back hair, serious stare, comes from a rich family…_ Sherlock found the easy clues, checking out every angle of the boy. Sherlock's gaze passed over to the girl who was staring at him with hard eyes, her hair pulled back entirely on the crown of her head. Sherlock blinked and looked away, staring at John's red All Stars. His friend's feet were stacked uncomfortably in the presence of the intruders.

"I suppose we should be moving on," he implied the woman. "We don't want to be hanging around with ordinary people like these." Sherlock narrowed his eyes and gave John a look, noticing he'd clenched his fist and was hiding it from the boy. Watson easily got ticked off when something bothered him, and his temper could ignite particularly when people talked dirty about his friends.

The freshly‒groomed boy was throwing an apple up and down in the air, catching it every time gravity pulled it back down to his hand. Light reflected off its blood red surface. The boy reached into his dress pants' pocket and pulled out a pocket knife. Molly flinched as her eyes flashed, pulling Tasha in and hiding her cat completely from view.

"This is a problem," the boy sneered, carving something into the fruit so no one could see. "I bet none of you will be able to survive school. You won't last a week with your behaviors."

"Shut it." John showed his fury standing up abruptly, his fist hidden behind his back. Sherlock extended out his hand to brace John, his fingers hooking onto the belt loop in his friend's jeans.

"Oh, I wouldn't do that," the apple boy warned, continuing to carve into the fruit and ignoring John. "You see," he began to show off now, "my mother and father both work at the Ministry of Magic, and if anything happens to me, since I'm a first year like…you," he sneered, looking at all the kids like they were filth, "they'll be informed directly."

"So what?" John spat back. "My father's been in the Army, and he's taught me a few skills on how to beat up snots like you!" Sherlock was on his feet now, connecting John's left shoulder with his, shielding him from going too far.

"Jim Moriarty," the boy finally introduced. He took one step into the compartment and the three suspects got a whiff of the smell of Jasmine flowers.  _Wait, is that him or her?_ Sherlock thought, but he was unmistaken as he spotted a clue to indicate that it was indeed the male.  _That's…disturbing._

"Hi." Confusion passed over Sherlock's face when Moriarty said the welcome message because it was spoken in a very high‒pitched, sing‒song tone. John didn't stir. His face was still in a state of hatred. Sherlock remained with his back to Jim and watched his reflection in the glass window, making sure not to take his eyes off the new criminal. The girl behind Moriarty giggled but still refused to introduce herself. She remained silent for the remainder of the conversation.

"If you don't stop prying, Sherlock…" The brunette twisted, appalled at the use of his name in such a tone. He hadn't even told Moriarty who he was. The boy stopped carving into the apple and the peeled bit fell unnoticed to the floor. "I will burn you. I will burn…the heart out of you." It was as simple as that. This Moriarty was being serious and Sherlock tightened his grip on John's upper arm, feeling him shift on his feet.

John's Pocket Sneakoscope suddenly flashed and began to spin, twirling around on the bench and slamming into the compartment wall. The latches inside its complicated shell had scanned the room, finding that one or several intruders were not to be messed with. Watson was still breathing heavily and Holmes's hand was on the front of his chest. The young detective must have judged the blond's attitude to be sparking, and thus his fist contracted to latch around the shorter boy's shoulder bone. The younger eleven‒year‒old flicked his eyes on his tool, giving the birthday present a solving look.  _I already know this bully is an ass,_ he thought, watching Tasha crawl out of hiding and play with the top. She smacked it in entertainment with her paw, beating it up ferociously until it went crashing to the floor. She looked disappointed and pranced back over to Molly, figuring it wouldn't be wise if she followed it onto the carpet. Sherlock had also directed his attention on the Sneakoscope, but he went back to dealing with the newcomer and continued the conversation boiling with enmity.

"I've been reliably informed that I don't have one." John's eyes widen a tad as a hint of sadness flickered through them. Although, Sherlock didn't see his friend sulk because he'd turned around to face the tormentor. John knew Sherlock had a heart. Right there, in his chest. John could reach out and feel it beating if he had the nerve to. Maybe he didn't express love with it the way normal human beings did, but there was definitely a pumping organ hidden behind his rib cage.

"Oh, but we both know that's not quite true." Moriarty snickered and the girl behind him made some sort of evil gesture with her shoulders. "Here's our problem," Moriarty stated, throwing the apple at Sherlock, which he caught easily in his left hand without taking his gaze off the boy.

"Come on," Jim roused, twisting his head like a snake towards the front of the train. "Let's move on. I can't stand to be around these pathetic first years anymore."

"You're no more a first year yourself!" John screamed. Several people who were out in the hall stopped to watch the commotion. The blond boy launched himself at Jim, but Sherlock used his strength to hold him back, wrapping one arm around Watson's stomach and one around his dominant punching arm, still fighting to clutch the apple.

"Ciao." Moriarty made no movement when John had flung himself at him, and the troublemaker turned his back on the three fellow eleven‒year‒olds, slamming the door behind him. The woman followed close behind him as they disappeared out of sight.

Sherlock didn't let go of John until several long moments after the boy and girl had disappeared to the left outside the door. He let his skinny hands released from John's body gradually, making sure the shorter boy wouldn't take off suddenly after Moriarty. John relaxed his tense muscles, slowly loosening his fingers from their tight grip.

He brushed off his shoulders and adjusted his stance, removing his body from Sherlock's firm hold. Watson sank onto the bench, crossing his arms and shaking his head in rage at the groomed boy. Molly sat in the corner, silently stroking Tasha with a frightened look on her face.

"That uh…thing that you did…that was um…good." Sherlock scratched the curls on his head, messing them up and shaking from head to toe.

"Served him right," John murmured, bending over his knee to tie his shoelaces. Holmes's thighs shook uncontrollably as he sat down on the floor, resting his back against the bench. He smacked his owl's cage telling Elizer to shut up, and the bird went silent when a few owl pellets collapsed onto the cage floor.

Another noise greeted their ears as the compartment door flew open again. Lestrade came in, his arms containing dozens of sweets, the coins clinking in his pockets. He gave a bewildered look in the direction where Moriarty had left and somehow managed to point his finger under the small mound of cakes.

"Who was that?" he asked, taking a bite out of a cauldron cake.

"Just some kid who wanted to cause trouble," Sherlock inquired before John could open his mouth and say something much worse and harsher. Lestrade nodded in comprehension, not completely getting why someone would burst into the train room. He chucked a few sweets to everyone and settled the rest beside his seat on the bench.

"What did he want?" Lestrade continued, heaving a big sigh and crossing his legs to sit on his hip.

"He just wanted to give me this apple." Sherlock frowned and felt the stickiness of the food's inside graze his forearm. He turned it over in his hands, pondering what Moriarty could have carved into the fruit.

They were letters, three yellow letters against the red, standing out with a message.

_I.O.U._

Sherlock brushed the apple away, opened Elizer's cage and stuck the large snack in for the owl to chew on. When he pulled it out later to throw it in the garbage, his pet had nibbled around the letters and only plucked a few dents in the red surface.  _I never liked riddles,_  he thought. Lestrade dug into his pocket and pulled out a few silver Sickles and bronze Knuts.

"Here you go, John," he said, shuffling the coins in his palm. He groaned a little as he stretched out to hand them back to their owner.

"Thanks," John mumbled, anger still buried in his throat.

Lestrade noticed John's harshness immediately. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Sherlock tried to confirm, stepping into the conversation rapidly.

John wasn't the first to reply. Molly, still hidden in her shadow in the corner, spoke up before all the first year boys. She stammered as she spoke. "He…he called us…pathetic."

Lestrade stopped in mid chew, holding his cauldron cake in his right hand and resting his left arm on his bent knee. All was silent for a few seconds. Not a sound echoed in the room except for Elizer chomping loudly on his food and the soft breaths of John's owl, still asleep under her wing. Tasha had started up her purring again, crawling over the cushioned bench to settle in John's lap.

Lestrade, the bulkiest of the three boys, sat stunned on the carpet. He gulped loudly and swallowed his mouthful of sweets before making a clicking noise with his tongue and opening his lips again.

"You're…you're not serious, are you?" He paused to clean his teeth, blowing on his hand and smelling his breath. Lestrade looked around for a sign of a reply, running his fingers through his sharp black hair.

Finally, out of the corner of his eye, Lestrade saw Sherlock nod calmly.

He took another bite out of his cauldron cake before commenting on the first year he hadn't even met yet. "That little…bastard."


	7. Destiny's Path

** Chapter Seven **

Destiny's Path

* * *

Lestrade was the only person who was thoroughly enjoying the sweets he'd bought. Sherlock automatically ignored the cauldron cakes he was thrown and placed them on the shelf connected to the window. Molly secretly nibbled on a pumpkin pasty, and she ripped off a piece so Tasha could smell it. Lestrade's remark had sent a never‒ending silence through their cart, and Sherlock told no one of what was carved on the apple's gleaming surface.

"Sorry…" Molly said shakily, interrupting the quiet, "what time is it?"

Lestrade was the first to read out the request. John vaguely glanced at his watch but didn't announce the numbers to everyone. "It's 12:53," Greg indicated, leaving a fingerprint on his sterling silver watch face. He reached behind his head to grab another treat, commenting, "These are really good."

"Jesus!" John screamed, making Sherlock jump and distracting him from his mind palace. He'd pulled the string on a rectangular‒shaped golden box, and when he removed the lid what was inside had launched itself out of the container. The bewitched treat hopped around the compartment, making strange noises until Lestrade stomped on it with his shoe, flattening the chocolate.

"What the hell was that?" John exclaimed. He'd crushed a corner of the box when the sweet had somehow jumped out of its shield. Lestrade gritted his teeth as he slowly peeled his foot from the floor, dreading what mess would lie underneath.

"That," Sherlock started, leaning forward to get a closer look at the gold and blue box, "was a Chocolate Frog."

"But, it… _moved!_  How can a chocolate treat move?" Watson looked both puzzled and shocked, pointing at Lestrade's slow motion moving foot and glimpsing the mushed candy under the sole of his foot.

"It's magic, John," Sherlock pointed out rather dryly. "What did you expect? You have to expect a lot of things to move that shouldn't when we get to Hogwarts." Lestrade finally tipped his foot onto its side, revealing a flattened chunk of chocolate stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

"Well, that's attractive," he grumpily remarked, pushing himself up onto his hands and trying not to put his dirty shoe sole on the carpet. John went back to examining the Chocolate Frog box, pulling from the inside a thin card that was the same shape as the container. The card was almost like a hand, and the box was a glove protecting it.

John picked up the chromatic cardboard and in the center of it a window revealed the figure of a man. John tilted the card left and right, hypnotized by the fact that the man in the card looked 3D, just as a miniature version. Feeling peculiar, John elongated his fingers and tried to wrap them around the figure, but it really was just a flat card. His fingers weren't able to penetrate through the surface, and instead they were blocked by the border that made the collector's card flat.

The gold stars on the border stood out against the brilliant blue background, and the man standing in the frame smiled up at him. The name under the wooden border was written in white script, reading  _Bowman Wright._  Before opening his mouth to ask who it was, John's question was answered when he turned the card over and skimmed over the description.

_"_ _A skilled metal_ _‒_ _charmer, Bowman Wright of Godric's Hollow is credited with the invention of the Golden Snitch."_

"So, do people collect these or something?" John showed Sherlock the wizard card, and Holmes smiled when he read the name.

"Oh yeah. Mycroft's got a whole bunch at home. He's given me some of the duplicates he's gotten over the years. There are hundreds of these things." He looked the card up and down, turning it over in his hands and reading the text repeatedly. "Funny you got that card." Sherlock seemed amused, handing it back over to John.

"Why?"

"Because you'd be good at Quidditch. I've told you that before." John shrugged, staring back down at Bowman Wright. He recalled the day Sherlock had explained the wizard sport to him; there were a lot of rules involved, but the object of the game was remarkably simple.

"I thought you said first years couldn't play…" John brought the thought to his mind.

"Well, that's not entirely true. It is just highly unlikely that they'd have the opportunity to make the team."

"Sorry about your frog, John," Lestrade apologized, cleaning off the bottom of his sneaker with a spare napkin. "Kinda crushed it a little too hard…"

John chuckled, watching Greg struggle with the mushed chocolate on his shoes. "It's alright," he assured the taller boy. "I don't think I'll want to eat one for a while now, especially after it nearly gave me a heart attack."

They still had several hours left of their journey on the train, which was spent mostly with Sherlock entertaining them all with little bits of magic he'd spark from his wand. Molly got up the courage to teach the boys a card game she'd learned at an early age, but that didn't go down too well as the curly‒haired brunette pointed out rules that weren't accurate or fair. Sherlock even eventually began to munch on some of the sweets Lestrade had bought, and John grinned at him as he fed Athiel through the bars of her cage.

Finally, when John's watch read 18:43, Molly suggested that they change into their school robes. So, each of the four friends retrieved their trunks from the racks above and slipped on their Hogwarts uniforms, boys dressed in pants and the lone girl in a short, grey skirt with vertical folds around the fabric.

Sherlock was placing his trunk back on the shelf just below the ceiling when he heard Molly let out a shriek from the window. She pointed and stared, wide‒eyed, her face lit up with joy.

"What?" Lestrade was just as curious to know what she'd had a row about, and when he reached the window he was able to speak before the discoverer could.

"It's Hogwarts!" he grinned, not as broad as his first one however. "Way out in the distance. Blimey, it's barely visible above the treetops from here. I reckon we'll be there in about ten minutes."

They sat back down, anxiously waiting for the train to gently press on the brakes and come to a crawling stop. Molly was the most excited of them all; the boys noticed that she was showing more emotion in that moment than anyone had on the entire trip, except for when John had nearly jumped on Jim. She wouldn't sit still. She patted her fingers on her thighs and Sherlock could tell that she was both frantic and nervous. Hooper was practically bouncing up and down in her seat and Greg ultimately had to nudge her on the arm to snap her out of the distraction she caused.

After what seemed like years, the train gave a sudden lurch and the wheels squeaked as they rubbed against the steel track. The mode of transportation's speed decreased steadily and through the darkness Sherlock and Molly could see some sort of station ahead. It was difficult to see crystal clearly because the engine had started billowing out steam from its underside.

The train came to a crawl and soon inched its way forward, coming to a stop next to a wide platform lit by the moonlight. Lestrade slammed his hands on his knees, standing up swiftly and brushing off his robes.

"Well, let's go you three," he beckoned, sliding the door open and standing back for the others to pass by. Dozens of students poured out from the compartments and Sherlock could undoubtedly tell which kids were first years. The abashed looks on their faces expressed their confusion, and some stood around, glancing in all directions.

An older student appeared at the end of the cart, making enthusiastic gestures with his hands and shouting at the top of his lungs. "First years, leave all your belongings on the train. Just make your way onto the platform quickly please!" Molly apprehensively led the way, following the other students off the train. The four friends filed out onto the platform, stumbling as they lunged to reach the step several feet away.

All around, hundreds of kids and teenagers were spilling out onto the platform in the petite train station. Sherlock looked around for a glimpse of Mycroft, but he was nowhere to be found over the heads in the crowd. There were two crossing signs at the end of the podium, and the one more viewable title read  _Hogsmeade Station._

And then a loud booming voice echoed across the platform, startling the four friends but only making the two shorter kids John and Molly jump. Whoever was yelling wasn't speaking proper English though, considering they left out certain letters and sounds when they spoke. They also seemed to grunt after every sentence.

"First ye'rs this way!" The voice came from their left and when John turned to look, he could see a lantern about the same size of his skull floating before someone. Sherlock nodded his head towards the other three, indicating they should make their way to the end of the platform.

When they got in better viewing distance, John noticed that a man with a scraggly beard had his hand with a firm grip on the lantern handle. But when he focused his eyes against the blackness, he realized that it wasn't a man at all. He was over eleven feet tall and almost as wide as four John's put together. His long, black hair was a tangled mess with knots in it everywhere, and he wore a long brown overcoat with several patches in the fabric.

A pink umbrella was swung over his left shoulder, and he stared down at all the first years with beady black eyes. Molly went back to looking frightened and Lestrade looked like someone had smacked him across the face. Mycroft had told Sherlock about the staff members and professors at Hogwarts. He even knew that the Defense Against the Dark Arts post was supposedly rigged; that no one had been on the job for more than a year at a time. Sherlock decided to explain to the petrified students that the giant was harmless by starting a conversation.

"Hello Hagrid!" Sherlock waved and the giant searched the crowd, wondering who could've intervened between the pounding of hundreds of footsteps on the pavement.

"Hey th're, Sh'rlock!" The brunette wasn't surprised by the fact that the half‒giant already knew his name. Mycroft blabbed about everything to any pair of ears that would listen, so half the school knew Mycroft Holmes had a younger sibling. "Be'n wond'rin' when I'd get ter see yeh." He scanned the faces of John, Lestrade, and Molly, then turned back to face the small crowd that was gathered together, figuring he'd be introduced to the newcomers properly later.

"Right you lot, follow me this way." He waved his massive hand and the mob of first years followed behind the monstrous man. All the other older students had disappeared to head up to the castle and the four friends stayed close together as they walked along the pathway.

The group came to the edge of a lake, surrounded by spooky trees creating a forest. "Right," Hagrid began, pointing a finger at wooden boats tied to the shore. "Four per boat, no more. Chop chop!" Lestrade snagged a boat for the four of them on the end of the row and held it still as Molly scrambled into the rocking seat.

When everyone was situated in the vehicles, Hagrid waved his pink umbrella in the air and the ropes binding the boats wove their way onto the bases on the wooden rafts. As if invisible propellers were attached to back of the boats, they began to swim through the lake, leaving ripples in the water as they went.

The boats turned the corner and a magnificent view greeted their eyes. The striking castle was lit up with hundreds of different shaped windows, giving it a luminous glow. The moon shone brightly over the tallest tower, leaving a silver streak across the slanted brick roofs. Molly and John had their mouths agape, sitting next to each other in the front of the boat. The school grew larger as the boats became closer to the far shore, the walls towering over their tiny bodies.

* * *

The grey stone felt cool and smooth on the blond's hands. Sherlock, John, Lestrade, and Molly stood waiting among the crowd of first years on a staircase in front of two immense oak doors. One of them suddenly opened, and a tall witch in emerald green robes and a matching pointy hat emerged from behind the barrier. It closed with a deafening echo through the school walls, and the woman approached the students with great speed.

"Welcome to Hogwarts." Her lips were pursed in a thin line and her glasses sat on the bridge of her nose, making her look much older than she actually was. Everyone's attention was focused on the professor, but she beamed at them as if she'd given the speech thousands of times before.

"Welcome," she repeated. "Now, very soon, all of you will pass through these doors to join the rest of the school. But before the feast begins, you must be sorted into one of the four houses. They're Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin." John shifted nervously on his feet and Sherlock couldn't help but squeeze his friend's wrist.

"Now while you're here, you will consider your houses to be like your families." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You will compete for house points. House points will be given to those who are intelligent students that answer questions or make outstanding achievements, and they shall be taken away for rule breaking scenarios. At the end of the year, the house with the most house points will be awarded the House Cup." There was a soft murmur of eagerness spreading through the crowd, but the professor got their attention back easily.

"My name is Professor McGonagall. I am both the head of Gryffindor house and the deputy headmistress here at Hogwarts. I shall inform the headmaster that we are ready for you." She pivoted on her heel and as she approached the dining hall the left oak door opened on its own for her.

"How long is this going to take?" John whispered, nudging Sherlock with his elbow.

"Depends. The quicker people step up to get sorted, the faster the process will be over."

"So, what house do you think you'll be sorted into?" A sneer was heard over Lestrade's shoulder and they all turned to glare at Jim Moriarty. The slim girl was leaning on the staircase railing next to him, her red fingernails inches from Jim's. He gave Watson an evil grin and addressed the tallest boy, who he seemed mildly interested in. "Since you're a Pureblood, I imagine you'll get placed in Slytherin."

"And who the hell are you?" Lestrade acted like he was greeting a camel, totally lost but knowing this boy was trouble.

"Don't get on his bad side," Molly warned, only speaking in his ear so no one else could decipher her warning.

"Why don't you shut up and mind your own business?" John snapped, rolling his flaming eyes and turning away.

"Touchy are we?" Jim taunted, crossing his arms and waiting for a reply to his unanswered question.

"I think I can manage with dealing with my enemies by myself thanks," Sherlock indicated the well‒groomed first year. "Don't bring my friends in just to try and be tough or attract attention." Moriarty was silenced as the doors to the Great Hall opened once more.

"We're ready for you," Professor McGonagall informed the students, and they automatically followed her to the doors leading into the feasting room. They swung open on their hinges and the light from inside the trapped room poured out onto the first years as their steps led them into the large, open space.

John was glad he'd read  _Hogwarts: A History_ in that moment, because if he hadn't his mind probably would have gone insane from the endless number of bewitched items scattered throughout the Great Hall. Hundreds of cream colored candles blazed brightly, their tiny fires flickering above four long house tables. They floated carelessly in the air above the hall, illuminating the room from the high ceiling to the hidden corners. The second through seventh years sat at their proper house tables, all dressed in matching black robes with their house crest sewn to the front, blaring different pairs of colors.

A long staff table was spread at the opposite side of the hall, the wood shining and sitting on a raised platform above all the scanning faces. John spotted Hagrid entering through a wide door in the far left of the hall, taking a seat in an oversized chair next to a very dreamy looking witch.

Sherlock nudged John on the upper arm, and he acknowledged his head to the ceiling. When the younger kid looked up, he didn't even think there was a roof at first, but then he remembered a fact from the book; for the room cover had been bewitched to mimic the night sky outside, and dozens of twinkling stars stood out amidst the swirl of black and blue. On the two longer sides of the hall were two monstrous fireplaces built into the walls, wider than a pickup truck and taller than a stack of twin bunk beds.

John and Sherlock walked side by side, Molly and Lestrade behind them, spying the various faces that watched them intently as they made their way towards the staff table. Professor McGonagall was in the lead, holding a scroll of parchment in her left hand and walking with her head stationed at one flat level. She made her way up the steps on the polished wood stage and made the students halt on the floor before a four legged stool. Sitting on top of the chair was a very old, patched, and tattered hat. Sherlock could tell that all eyes were focused on the stool, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as a cool breeze was blown past over the students while the rear of the group filed in. Professor McGonagall stepped back from the chair, leaving the staff with a clear view of the beat up wizard hat.

And then, to the first years' great amusement, the hat came to life and the wrinkles on the fabric molded to become the outline of eyes and the rim of a mouth. The hat shook the point of its top, patches flapping, and burst out into a song for all to listen.

_"_ _It all began long ago,_

_Four founders and a plan,_

_To bring young wizards together,_

_And perform the magic they can._

_They stitched me up to do the job,_

_Sorting children into their clans,_

_So all houses were equal in students,_

_And thus Hogwarts school began._

_It might be your call where you might belong,_

_Just put me on to learn your fate,_

_For I have never been openly wrong,_

_So know the path that you must take._

_In Gryffindor is where you might settle,_

_The brave and daring do dwell,_

_Those lions are always true at heart,_

_So this house might suit you well._

_Or perhaps in loyal Hufflepuff,_

_Where hard_ _‒_ _workers are placed,_

_Those badgers may not be popular,_

_But they sure won't be a waste._

_In the house of wise Ravenclaw,_

_You might find your mind,_

_Those eagles sure are clever,_

_You'll truly find them kind._

_Or perhaps in Slytherin,_

_Those Purebloods tend to be,_

_Cunning to reach a goal,_

_Their eyes are set to see._

_So here you are to find out now,_

_Where you ought to be,_

_Don't worry, I've never misjudged,_

_And that you'll surely see."_

Molly exited her nervous stage for a few minutes, listening to the hat's song with Lestrade off to the left side of the hall. They stood between the Ravenclaw and Slytherin house tables, taking in every note and tale the accessory gave them. Lestrade caught her eye and she gave him her precious smile. Sherlock and John stood a few meters away, clumped in the center of the huddle together and whispering about the school so no one could hear.

The hat concluded its song and the hall burst out into a marvelous applause. The rhythm expressed information about the history of the school summed up in less than two minutes, mentioning the four founders of Hogwarts and their idea of forming the wizarding school. John gave Sherlock an eyebrow and the older boy was forced to clap along with everyone else.

Professor McGonagall stepped forward before the first years, unrolling the scroll of parchment in her hands and pushing her glasses farther back on her nose. "Now…" she addressed the kids once more, emptying her throat to give her short spiel.

Some of the girls on the end of the row had become rigid in complete fear, and others were shifting back and forth on the balls of their feet. "When I call your name, you will come up to the platform, I will place the Sorting Hat on your head, and it will sort you in the house it thinks suits you best." Several students nodded, understanding while a few others in the middle of the pack murmured incomprehensible words.

The head of Gryffindor house read the first name on the list, starting in alphabetical order by last name. "Abord, Darren." A very short boy with blazing red hair and tons of freckles shakily stepped up to the stool. He glanced heavily at the professor and she nodded for him to sit on the stool. He sat before the entire hall, and Professor McGonagall slowly lowered the hat onto the boy's head. The rim fell all the way over half his face and his shoulders tensed up as his eyes were blinded by darkness.

The boy sat trembling uncontrollably on the seat and everyone waited for the moment when the hat would sort Darren into his acceptable category. After several long, muted minutes the hat opened its brim, and its bold voice echoed throughout the dining hall to sort the first student.

"HUFFLEPUFF!" The tension in the boy's veins loosened as the Great Hall erupted into shouts. The first years clapped and watched the terrified kid make his way through the mass of students towards the Hufflepuff table.

Professor McGonagall continued to read off the names of the students, and one by one, the fidgety novices filed out from the small crowd. Seconds later they vanished under the wizard accessory, and the Sorting Hat shouted the different houses to the Great Hall.

A very peculiar incident happened however when Professor McGonagall announced a name from the list of 'B's.' "Brook, Richard." No one stepped forward. People peered over the heads of the first years, trying to get a better look at what was going on. A bunch of the staff members spied on the children situated before their eyes, expecting a student to step in front of the school, but still no one converged to be sorted. Professor McGonagall repeated the name, slightly louder the second time to make sure the boy hadn't just dozed off and missed the cue of his name. The professor shifted awkwardly on her feet. Then she concluded to the hall when the blankness got out of hand. "Well, if Richard Brook refuses to step forward, so be it. We shall move on."

The sorting ceremony carried on shortly afterwards, and John's stomach became more cramped with every name called. Since the students were sorted in alphabetical order by last name, the blond knew he would be one of the last first years remaining at the front of the dining room.

The girl who more so resembled a woman was sorted before the catastrophe with Richard Brook, so Sherlock, John, Molly, and Lestrade discovered that her name was Irene Adler. They could hear several people whisper behind their backs that she was dressed way too fancy under her robes, and she was all prissy when the hat had to be placed on her head, messing up her wild curls.

Before the hat had even touched her eyelashes, it opened its mouth and shouted "SLYTHERIN!" to the hall, sending a wave of roaring, intense cheers to bounce off the walls. Irene took her time descending from the platform, making sure she wouldn't trip on her high heels.

Sherlock only really paid attention to a few people who were sorted. A rather serious looking and sullen faced boy named Phillip Anderson with flat, black hair was sorted into Hufflepuff also, and he showed not the slightest hint of excitement in his face while heading over to join his new housemates.

And then there was a girl named Sally Donovan who got sorted not far after the Richard Brook case. She had a darker skin tone than most of the students and very curly and frizzy hair, which stood out a good six inches from her head. She had hard, brown eyes that could give you a death stare, and when she approached the stool she acted like the world revolved around her. The hat took a long time deciding with her, but eventually she was placed into, "GRYFFINDOR!"

"God, I hope they hurry up," Molly heard Lestrade complain, his stomach rumbling loudly. "I'm bloody hungry." She giggled to herself when all Greg could think about was food. Holmes dozed off for a while, scanning the staff table and making deductions about the teachers until John punched him lightly on the shoulder.

"You're going to be called soon. They just entered the 'H's'." Sherlock muttered his thanks to his friend and Watson returned the favor with a smile. He kept his ears open for his name to be called, and there were at least ten more before he heard his title ringing in his ears.

"Holmes, Sherlock."

Before being all alone, John felt another squeeze in his left wrist, and Sherlock winked as the crowd pulled aside for him. He approached the stool from near the Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables. Despite being one of the tallest of the eleven‒year‒olds, the hat still fell over his eyes.

The Sorting Hat didn't twitch on the top of his head, but he heard a whispering voice communicating with him through his brain. " _Hmm…"_  it croaked in his ear, " _you're difficult, you are."_

 _Don't you dare say I'm as complicated as my brother,_ Sherlock warned, trying to maintain his composure and not show the sneer tugging at the corner of his mouth to the hall. People would judge him on the spot.

_"_ _Well, I see a lot in you. Very intelligent and wise, willing to learn. Frequently solitary, focused on your own life and staying out of others' problems; you do tend to remain concentrated on yourself most of the time. Yet there's loyalty in you. I can see you'd do whatever it takes to defend your friends, even though you may not know it."_

_I don't have friends…_ Well, there was an exception. The only friend Sherlock had in the world was…

John Watson.

" _There's bravery about you too. You're not afraid of anything or afraid to do something. You're cunning as well, ambitious in reaching goals in life…"_

 _But I don't care for power,_ Sherlock pointed out. He wanted nothing to do with being on top of the world or becoming the Minister of Magic like Mycroft.

 _"_ _You could fit in a number of places…"_ Sherlock was starting to get annoyed. Through the thick fabric of the hat he could hear the older students beginning to whisper, which meant the hat was taking its sweet old time deciding where to place him.

" _But I think there's one thing that stands out most in you. That sets you apart from the rest…"_

_"_ _So, you must belong in…"_

"RAVENCLAW!" Sherlock nearly threw the hat off his head he was so relieved it was over; not because of the butterflies in his stomach, but because he no longer had all eyes locked on him. The curly brunette, being taller than the remaining first years, looked over the crowd and caught John's eye, who gave him a thumbs up. He felt a number of hands slap his back as he sat down at the Ravenclaw table, no doubt the older students congratulating him.

The next of the three friends to be sorted was the single female. Her face looked absolutely mortified when Professor McGonagall called, "Hooper, Molly." Her knees were shaking so much that as a result the ginger almost tripped over the top step. She fiddled with her hands as the hat whispered in her ear, and John could tell that she wished it was over sooner than it was.

"HUFFLEPUFF!" the hat announced to the hall, and Molly hastily darted from the stool, heading to the far right of the hall for her table where the entire house stood cheering. She took her seat next to the first boy sorted, who gladly shook her hand. Molly wiped the sweat off her forehead, thankful the nerve‒wrecking process was over.

John pushed his way past a few eleven‒year‒olds in the crowd to stand with Lestrade. The taller boy's stomach grumbled again, and he clutched it tightly so it wouldn't attract too much attention.

Another boy that particularly stood out was a boy named Henry Knight. He had the largest ears John had ever seen for an eleven‒year‒old. The tops of them were quite round and they stuck out from his head a good few centimeters; they ended up folding over from the weight of the hat's rim because they stuck out so much. Almost directly after it settled on his head, the hat shouted, "HUFFLEPUFF!" Lestrade knew he would soon be called and sorted, so when Professor McGonagall introduced his name to the audience, Greg took the opportunity to show off and swagger up onto the stage. Several Slytherin fifth year girls giggled behind John's back, and he couldn't help but snort at their obnoxious behavior.

The Sorting Hat's decision flew like a bullet from its mouth, with no hesitation of placing Lestrade in, "GRYFFINDOR!" John clapped loudly for him, hoping the Sorting Hat would make an easy choice with himself as well.

The frown on John's face deepened as Jim Moriarty's name was called. His navy blue suit was still visible under his school uniform, and John's fingers itched to curl into a fist and give the little twit what he deserved. Professor McGonagall let the hat graze the silkiness of Jim's slicked back hair, and just as quickly as the hat had announced Lestrade's house it opened its brim to undoubtedly shout, "SLYTHERIN!"

The roar of vicious cheers erupted again, and even Mycroft couldn't help but lousily clap along with the rest of the Slytherin students. Sherlock peered over the crowd at John, whose head was barely visible among the other blonde‒haired kids, just to make sure his temper wasn't rising again.

John blushed in his cheeks as a pretty girl walked by him after Moriarty was sorted. Her face resembled a doe and she had big blue eyes that were lighter than his own. Her short blonde hair was well groomed, lying flat against her head with a bushy look. Her name, John found out, was Mary Morstan. The hat had a bit of a challenge with her, but nobody could beat Sherlock's sorting debate with the hat. Her stunning eyes emerged from under the hat after the Gryffindor table showed their appreciation enthusiastically once more.

Slowly and steadily, one by one, the students were sorted and went to join their housemates who welcomed them with cheers and shouts of excitement. Professor McGonagall read the names, her finger tracing down the parchment, narrowing down the list and getting farther into the alphabet. When the teacher reached the last names beginning with 'W', the lurching in John's stomach was uncontrollable and he felt like her would get sick at any moment. Only one person had a last name starting with the similar letter before him, and he shifted on his All Stars nervously.

"Watson, John."

John exhaled a deep breath, feeling like this was a test or something. He got a frightening glance of the staring audience before the felt brushed against his hair and the darkness took over his eyes, excluding him from the rest of the humans in the room.

What John didn't expect was for the hat to start speaking in his mind, and he nearly jumped out of his skin when the deep voice entered his thoughts with permission or an invitation.

 _"_ _Where shall I put you?"_ John gripped his hands on his knees, knowing his knuckles were turning white. He didn't know whether to respond or not. The only action he performed was thinking about the one thing he hoped for.

_Just please don't be Slytherin…Anything but Slytherin._

_"_ _Really?"_ The hat teased. " _Well, I see great bravery in you. You have a true heart, being a boy who is begging for an adventure; yet there's loyalty as well. For your heart can love more than you think, and you'll do anything to keep those you love close to you and safe under your protection. No small amount of courage will come from you."_

John tried to picture what house the hat was trying to place him in, reckoning it was a tie between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff. His fingers tapped on his thighs as he anxiously waited for an answer but dreaded the moment it came at the same time.

_"_ _Well, then it must be…"_

"GRYFFINDOR!" The smile on John's face was so wide he felt his cheeks contracting and being forced into a smaller space than was allowed. His sparkling blue eyes were revealed to the Great Hall again, and the mass of scarlet and gold greeted him as he reached the table belonging to the lions. He raced down the aisle in between the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw tables, keeping an eye out for Sherlock's curly hair and Lestrade's figure on a nearby bench.

There he was, his cheekbones standing out on his beaming face, clapping along with all the other students and staff members. His black robes were pulled over the seat next to him and Sherlock nodded his head at the free chair behind his spot at Watson's house table. Several people shook John's hand, welcoming the newbie to Gryffindor house. Holmes waited patiently for everyone to settle down again before giving his best friend his congratulations.

"Told you," he smirked, showing off his pestering skills.

"Yeah well, it debated putting me in Hufflepuff." Sherlock shook his head in disagreement, clearly happy with the result that had occurred.

They continued watching the remainder of the sorting ceremony, which didn't last long after John had been sorted. Only four students remained standing, three girls and one boy. The last to go was "Zotr, Quinn," and she felt the most pressure being the final student to be sorted. All eyes were wide in wonder to see which house would gain the last kid, and Sherlock and John clapped as Quinn went to Ravenclaw and the eagles.

Professor McGonagall gathered up the stool with the Sorting Hat, and one final round of applause echoed through the hall as the ceremony came to close. John could hear Lestrade over his shoulder sigh a relief and whisper, "Finally! I'm starving," making Mary Morstan and Sally Donovan laugh.

Several people made shushing noises and heads turned to face the end of the hall in the direction of the staff table. An old man in royal purple robes rose from his high‒backed golden throne, his long, silver beard shining like the moon. His blue eyes twinkled behind half‒moon spectacles, and the students became quiet as the headmaster Albus Dumbledore prepared to speak.

John caught Sherlock's eye. The blue and green met each other, and Holmes noticed Watson's pupils dilated inside the glassy spheres.

And John was glad that his best friend, Sherlock Holmes, belonged to the house of the royal blue and bronze rather than the house of the emerald green and silver.


	8. Already Home

** Chapter Eight **

Already Home

* * *

"Welcome, welcome!" Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, stood waving both his hands in mid air, settling the crowd down and collecting all the attention in the hall. John could hear the pitter‒patter of Lestrade's fingers against the wooden table to his right across from where he sat. He was clearly starving, begging for the food to be served in a short amount of time. But the headmaster walked over to a podium with an owl carved into the front, preparing to give the welcoming tradition.

"Welcome all to another year at Hogwarts; unless you have just been sorted into your houses, in which case this will be your first time exploring the walls of our castle. Before we enjoy our start of term feast, I have several important announcements to share." All eyes were locked on the headmaster while he cleared his throat once before continuing with his speech.

"First, I would delightedly like to announce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Bob Franklin." A man at the far right end of the staff table with short white hair and bulky shoulders stood up to the warm greeting. He bowed bashfully, thinking Dumbledore didn't need to address him so profoundly. "We all wish you the very best of luck," the headmaster explained as the clapping died down.

"Secondly, Mr. Filch has asked me to remind you that all students are strictly forbidden to enter the Forbidden Forest unless accompanied by an adult. Also, Mr. Filch would also like me to ask all students to keep a close watch on their pets. We had several unfortunate incidents happen last year and don't want a déjà vu of the event." Several people snickered over at the Slytherin table and Sherlock couldn't tell if they were the ones who were responsible for the act or if they were first years simply laughing at the ridiculous catastrophe.

"Thirdly," the professor projected, flashing an enlightening smile at all the kids, "and most importantly, Hogwarts will need to take host to the dementors of Azkaban." An outbreak of whispers and uneasiness passed over the hall, bodies leaning everywhere to speak to neighbors and former housemates. "But," Dumbledore's voice boomed over the distracting chatter, "it is your job to give them no reason to harm you. It's your responsibility not to mess with them and stay out of their way."

"The dementors will be stationed at every entrance to the grounds. Many of you may wonder why they're being brought here this year; for the most powerful wizard of all time has gathered a group of followers, and these wizards will kill or torture anyone in their path. His followers plan to restore him to power, but I will not allow that or anything harmful to happen to my students." Sherlock heard John gulp loudly.

"I assure you," Dumbledore ensured, raising his hand and pointing his finger, being sure to make a point, "our school will be protected beyond wickedness, so I want none of you to worry. With the talented assembly of staff we have, nothing will get past our school borders." Multiple teachers at the staff fumbled with their hands, trying to find hope for themselves or blushing at Dumbledore's exaggerated comment.

Dumbledore continued on with his speech, but John wasn't paying attention. Instead, he leaned backwards and elbowed Sherlock in the ribs. A grunt exited from the boy's mouth and Watson quickly mumbled he was sorry.

"What's Azkaban?" the Gryffindor asked, curious to know what the place was. He'd never read any information about such a location and Sherlock had never told him back home. John could tell Lestrade was leaning across the table, trying to spy on the two boys and retrieve information from them secretly.

"Azkaban is the wizard prison. I heard it's full of misery and dread, that's why no one's ever broken out before. It's almost impossible."

"Almost…" John caught the word.

"Well, there's got to be some way to breakout. You can break out of anywhere if you pick the right moment and plan it carefully." John shuffled his feet on the marble floor. Albus Dumbledore's words were weaving in and out of his hearing, but he only caught a few before turning his attention back to Sherlock.

"Then what are the dementors for?" he whispered.

"They guard the place. You can't just expect murderous wizards to be locked in cells and have no security, do you?"

"I…No," John stuttered, changing his mind several times. "Stuff it, Lestrade," he muttered, snapping his head to face the other bench of his house table and catching the stock‒still Gryffindor. He shifted his body back onto the seat without attracting any attention, and John heard him mumbled, "Sorry," under his breath. Greg bowed his head in shame, picking at his jagged fingernails.

Dumbledore's lecture was coming to a close. He adjusted the sleeves of his robes, exposing the entirety of his wrinkly hands to the audience. "Enough chatter I think, for now. Your stomachs must be angry at you, and possibly me for keeping you waiting. Time to eat!" His blue eyes twinkled as he clapped his hands twice, very bouncy in personality.

Instantly, the golden dishes and goblets before their eyes magically filled with all sorts of delicious foods to munch on. There were gasps of excitement and impressiveness and John could just see Lestrade's piggy eyes light up with pleasure.

"All right!" he exclaimed, reaching for the plate of roast chicken, "let's eat!" John laughed and rubbed his growling stomach. Before filling his platter, he swiveled around in his seat to check on the brand new Ravenclaw.

"Sherlock?" The older boy didn't hear. Either that or he was purposefully ignoring the lion.

"Sherlock," the shorter wizard tried again, and this time the older brunette glanced briefly over his shoulder. "Eat," was all John told him.

"Why should I?" The reply came with quite a feud, and John narrowed his eyes.  _He's kidding, right?_ he thought.

"Um, because you need to…?" The comeback was more of an obvious question than an answer. Sherlock didn't move. He continued to sit on the bench, arms crossed, glaring at his golden plate. "Come on, Sherlock," John begged, getting his convincing tone on. "Please? For me? Even if it's just something small?"

"Oh fine. Just be quiet you little devil." Sherlock and John always insulted each other. Not in a bad way, but just to piss off each other or have fun.

"I'm the devil? Really?" Watson joked, slugging Holmes in the lower back. "You know‒it‒all Ravenclaw."

"That was a terrible rhyme," Sherlock snorted, and then he added shortly afterwards, "shut up." John grinned again and went back to his own house table, loading his plate with tasty pork chops and mashed potatoes for a filling first dinner at his new home.

* * *

"First day," John inputted, swinging his legs over the Gryffindor bench and joining Lestrade for breakfast. It had been exactly twelve hours since their first satisfying supper, and John was eager to dig into the most important meal of the day. Why, the food was even better than some of the restaurants' he knew back in town, and that was saying something. The previous night, John and Lestrade had said goodnight to Sherlock, who headed off in the direction of his common room while following the Ravenclaw prefect.

The Gryffindor boy prefect led them up the marble staircase in the entrance hall to move on to the upper floors of the castle. John got a better view of the main entrance to the school as they passed by, Greg and Sherlock by his sides. The ceiling was so high the torches on the walls, which resembled the ones at Gringotts, couldn't cast a glow up to their height. There were dark shadows in the corners near where the roof met the walls, and several houses could fit in the overwhelming space.

Once past the dungeons, Great Hall, and up the stairs, the students were exposed to an even taller part of the building that directed everyone to different levels in Hogwarts. But what frightened most of the first years was the fact that the sets of staircases farther up  _moved._ They could rotate and each set of steps could connect to two platforms. "There are 142 staircases total in Hogwarts," the prefect informed their alarmed faces. "Just keep an eye on them though, because as you can see they like to change." Sometimes you could be standing naturally on a staircase having a conversation with a friend and the ground would shift right from under you. You'd end up facing another platform or hallway and have to wait until the ride swerved around to its normal place again before stepping off.

"But, isn't that dangerous?" someone whispered over John's ear, just as he detached his focus from the intertwining railing and stairs.

"Ravenclaws, this way!" A taller boy with a blue and bronze badge sewn to his robes ordered for his housemates to follow him to the west side of the castle down a lower flight of stairs and direct them to the fifth floor.

"Well, I'll see you later," Sherlock said, waving goodbye and bringing up the rear of the eagles.

"Bye!" both Gryffindors exclaimed, and the friends parted from each other.

The Gryffindor common room was a sight for their eyes, located all the way up on the seventh and top floor of the castle in a tower. The entrance was behind a portrait of the 'Fat Lady', who wore a bright pink dress with a bunch of lace in front of a canvas with smudged paint. The colors were faded and abstract, making sure she was the first thing one saw when they approached her painting.

Inside would be Watson's and Lestrade's new relaxing place for the next seven years, not including the summer holidays. Scarlet and gold covered the paneling near the ceiling, plushy armchairs sat before a roaring fire, bookshelves lined the walls, and tables purposed for studying littered the open area. Dormitories were up another flight of steps, ( _Too many,_ John thought) with girls on the right and boys on the left. Their room where they'd sleep was down a narrow hallway, and when they creaked open the door for first years all they wanted to do was flop down on the comfy mattresses and let sleep take over them. The five four‒poster beds had red duvets and snow white sheets, and when John sank into the mattress he felt like he was engulfed in a cloud.

Their belongings had been brought up to the dorms for them, along with John's owl as she sat perched in her cage when they entered their bedroom chamber. Their black robes now had Gryffindor patches sewn to the front, showing a lion roaring inside a scarlet border. Matching colored and striped ties and scarves had been folded on top of their dressers when they'd went to bed on the first evening, waiting to be used to show their house pride.

"Nervous?" Lestrade asked, taking a bite into some scrambled eggs back in the Great Hall after their own magical vision from their first night. John shrugged, flinging his bulky bag full of his school books off his shoulder and onto the floor beside his seat.

"Not as panicked as last night," John admitted. He picked up a slice of toast and crunched into it with his teeth before piling his plate with his full breakfast.

"Dude, last night was nothing." The use of 'dude' made John give Lestrade a look, but the larger boy continued on as if nothing had been said. "I went up there like nobody's business."

"Yeah, you swaggered in front of the whole school." John snorted to himself, but Lestrade sat proudly across the table.

"Damn straight I did," he inquired. "I made the most of it. If I was to be the only one in front of a large crowd attracting all the attention, I would automatically rule over everyone." John looked over his shoulder while chewing on a piece of bacon, feeling the bubbles on his tongue. At least half of the school was missing from the Great Hall, as there were large gaps at each of the four house tables, particularly the Hufflepuff table.  _Clearly there are some lazy people about these halls,_  John thought, turning his head back to Lestrade.

"Morning." A hand rebounded off the top of John's blond locks, startling him and making him jump a little off the bench. A body plopped down next to him at the Gryffindor table, his brown curls on his head messy and sticking out everywhere.  _Bed head. Can't even be bothered to fix his exposure,_ Greg inputted in his mind.

"Hello, Sherlock," he greeted, setting down his fork and rubbing his hands together. Tiny flakes of crusty bacon and biscuits flew off his fingertips.

"Aren't you supposed to be sitting at your house table?" John asked. He took a sip of his apple juice and almost gagged fearfully on the unanticipated sweetness of it.

"I can sit wherever I want." He pushed away the plate and goblet in front of him and reached for the sausage, taking a bite and swallowing loudly. "Don't worry. I'll sit in my proper place during dinner." He smiled, stopping in mid chew to address the gesture.

"Meet any new friends?" John asked him, flattening his hair. Sherlock snorted.  _Ridiculous question._

"No," was his dull response.

"Not even the boys in your dormitory?" Lestrade wondered, taking another bite of eggs.

"No. They're all sketchy and boring. The only friend, well, I wouldn't say 'friend' I have in my dorm is my skull."

"Your _what?"_  The shock hit John and he nearly spit out his drink. A few Hufflepuffs at the next table stopped to look over at the first years.

"My skull. Yes, I have a skull."

"And you brought it to school?" John asked, mortified.

"Problem?" The lion shut his mouth before things went too far. Sherlock cocked his head, stealing another piece of sausage and thoroughly enjoying it. His buddy had never seen him so interested in a piece of food before.

A Gryffindor Head Girl suddenly came over to where they sat from out of nowhere. She had vibrant red hair, almost matching the badge pinned on the front of her robes. Her two braids bounced on her shoulders as she approached the group. "Here are your schedules," she said, handing John and Lestrade flat pieces of parchment. "And here," she added, giving the third to Holmes. "I was told to deliver this to you."

"Thanks," John and Lestrade told her, but Sherlock ignored the older girl and stared at his schedule. He had four classes daily, but they varied depending on the day of the week. Weekends were devoted to catching up on homework, studying, or spending time with friends. Each class was an hour long and lunch was split equally between the four classes. Some days he had double period classes. His schedule for Monday read:

_9:00 – 9:30 — Breakfast_

_9:30 – 9:45 — Break_

_9:45 – 10:45 —Herbology_

_10:45 – 11:00 — Break_

_11:00 – 12:00 — Potions_

_12:00 – 1:00 — Lunch_

_1:00 – 1:15 — Break_

_1:15 – 2:15 — Transfiguration_

_2:15 – 2:30 — Break_

_2:30 – 3:30 — History of Magic_

_3:30 – 6:00 — Break_

_6:00 – 8:00 — Dinner_

"At least they're nice and let us semi sleep in," Lestrade commented. Holmes noted one thing for his schedule on Wednesday only, an additional class that required him to stay up late at night.

_12:00 A.M. – 1:00 A.M. — Astronomy_

"What does your schedule look like?" he asked, gazing over John's shoulder. He studied the subjects John had on different days and double checked his own list to see what he had left on his schedule. His Thursday schedule listed:

_9:00 – 9:30 — Breakfast_

_9:30 – 9:45 — Break_

_9:45 – 10:45 —Charms_

_10:45 – 11:00 — Break_

_11:00 – 12:00 — Flying Lessons_

_12:00 – 1:00 — Lunch_

_1:00 – 1:15 — Break_

_1:15 – 2:15 — Defense Against the Dark Arts_

_2:15 – 2:30 — Break_

_2:30 – 3:30 — Potions_

_3:30 – 6:00 — Break_

_6:00 – 8:00 — Dinner_

"Look," John said, pointing to a class on their first day. "We have Transfiguration together. And then tomorrow we have Defense Against the Dark Arts at the same time." Lestrade reached across the table, spotting the black ink on John's parchment, nose scrunched up. Sherlock rolled his eyes when he discovered he had to take flying lessons, as it never truly interested him.

"John," Greg noticed, and the lion replied with a small hum. "We have exactly the same schedule…"

"Obviously," Sherlock concluded. "The classes are split by houses. Distinctly, the different years of separate houses have classes together. So, for example, the first year Hufflepuffs could have Potions with the first year Slytherins. Copy?"

"Crystal clear," Lestrade nodded, making the okay symbol with his hand. "What do you reckon John? Are you knowingly willing to take flying lessons, being inexperienced and all?"

"I don't know. Maybe…" He took another sip of his apple juice.

"You'll like it," Sherlock told him, letting his schedule fall flimsily onto the table.

"Might be interesting," Greg thought, the maple bacon after taste lingering in his mouth.

"Yeah…" John debated, "I think I will. Why not be excited? Nothing to lose by taking the class. I'll just earn something instead, possibly getting skilled on a broom. Come on," he said, checking the time on his watch. "I know we still have twenty minutes left for breakfast, but we should leave now. We have to figure out where all these classrooms are."

They finished chewing their food and swallowed, then got up from the table and headed for the open oak doors to the Great Hall. "See you at lunch," Lestrade grinned, and Sherlock nodded. The singled‒out Ravenclaw waved goodbye and headed off to the greenhouses while Watson and Lestrade made their way to History of Magic. Their feet echoed off the floor as they went up the marble staircase, and they stared at all the various paintings on the walls that moved as they went by.

* * *

When they reached the History of Magic classroom, it was almost completely deserted. They had five minutes remaining, so they took their seats at the front of the room closest to the right hand side wall. There was no sign of any teacher and some of the Hufflepuff girls behind them whispered so they couldn't hear.

"This better be a good class," Lestrade muttered, pulling out a thick textbook from his bag. "Monday morning and all, I need a good spark to start off my day." John smiled and twirled his wand in his hands. One by one, first year students filed into the room, and soon enough of the seats were occupied to begin their first lesson.

"The teacher's late," John pointed out from his watch's proof, noticing they were already three minutes into class. Greg's fist was digging into his cheek and he tried to keep his eyes from shutting. John had to poke him several times to make sure he didn't fall asleep.

And then, without any warning or sound, the teacher, or more so, the  _ghost_ walked straight through the chalkboard in the front of the room, causing many people to gasp.

"Jesus!" Lestrade bellowed, which made a few girls behind him squeal in return. He immediately turned around in his seat and gave them a look, and they shut their mouths without being told twice.

Turns out, the ghost was their teacher. He introduced himself as Professor Binns, and he talked in a very boring monotone. His silvery shape floated at the front of the room, explaining what they'd learn in his class during their time span together of almost a full year, until their second year at Hogwarts. He lost the attention of half the kids in the first ten minutes. John tapped his wand lightly on the desk, which had a few dents and scrapes in the wood, but halted and felt embarrassed when Professor Binns told him it was rude. The lion shoved his wand back in his bag and didn't pull it out for the rest of the period.

The professor made them read the introduction in their textbooks, and when John looked over to the desk next to his he found that Lestrade sure enough had fallen asleep. Mouth slightly open, head resting on the book, his chest rose up and down steadily and the blond waited to see whether the teacher would notice.

He got lucky that one time though.

* * *

"Did I really fall asleep for forty minutes?" Lestrade remarked, finding the news hard to believe after they were dismissed.

"Oh yeah," John said nonchalantly. "You were out after we'd finished reading the first page. I'm surprised you didn't get a detention." Watson had already made opinions about Professor Binns, and from what he heard from most people later was that he was one of the lousiest teachers in the school. Occasionally during class his head would bounce like a bobble head figure, or he'd sit there twirling his mustache in his fingers for a long while before continuing on with his lesson. Supposedly his body had gotten up and walked away without his head one day, and thus he passed away.  _What a fictional way to die,_ John thought.  _Unbelievable._

"At least he's nice and didn't give us homework on the first day," Lestrade sighed. They passed several suits of armor with helmets closed, making their way towards the Charms classroom. "Oh god, really…" Lestrade whined as they turned the last corner and saw a group of Slytherin first years standing outside the classroom door. "We have to have class with these gits?"

"Or worse," John said, picking out Jim Moriarty in the center of the crowd. His tone was beginning to rise in his voice and Lestrade knew it meant trouble.

"Is that the little bastard that you tried to beat up on the train?" He wasn't hard to spot in the group of Slytherins, being only one of the few who had slicked back, dark hair.

"How do you know about that?" John asked, bewildered. "You weren't even in the compartment. You didn't even know when he insulted us on the steps outside the Great Hall."

"Sherlock told me."  _Figures,_ John thought. They entered the classroom, which was much bigger than the first one, and chose seats at the far end of the room. A table stood in the middle of the floor and rising benches with connected tables where flat against the walls on either side. They looked almost like wooden bleachers except for the high backs that indicated where the seats were.

They sat in the second row, directly in the middle so they got a clear view of the professor's desk. As the Slytherins came into the room, they took seats on the opposite side of the learning area, making faces at their Gryffindor enemies. John saw Moriarty seated in the far back row with Irene Adler accompanying him, and he heard his own knuckle crack as he hid it behind his table. She seemed to follow him wherever he went. Her hair was in a tight ponytail today, yet she still wore pounds of makeup all over her face.

A few minutes before the bell rang, their teacher entered the classroom through a door on their left. John was confused for a split second and Lestrade tried not to burst out laughing; for the professor was barely three feet tall and his white hair connected to a matching beard on his wrinkled face. He had great difficulty climbing up, but the only way he could see all his students was to stand on a pile of books stacked on his stable desk. The Slytherins laughed at his size, and when he spoke to them for the first time Lestrade looked completely haunted.

"Welcome, welcome!" The adult's voice was very high‒pitched and squeaky. "I am Professor Flitwick, and over the course of this year we shall be learning various charms that are useful in the wizarding world." Professor Flitwick was also head of Ravenclaw house. John laughed to himself, imagining Sherlock having a discussion with the tiny adult and towering over his figure.

"Now, I'd like to get started straight away with using magic," the professor encouraged. "We will be learning one of the simplest charms today, which is the ability to make objects levitate." A few of the Gryffindors murmured to one another, excitement buzzing at the opinion of the teacher's choice.

"Let's practice without wands first," Flitwick addressed, catching a few first years reaching in their bags for their sticks of wood. They stopped at his proposal and straightened up to listen for the rest of his instructions. "Now, repeat after me.  _Wingardiumleviosa_."

" _Wingardium leviosa_." The ring of about two dozen voices echoed the teacher.

" _Wingardium leviosa_. Don't forget to pronounce each syllable clearly."

The second time was much sharper and louder. " _Wingardium leviosa_."

"Good! Very good!" the elder squeaked again, pulling out his wand from beneath his robes. "Now, let's try it with wands now." The professor gave a small swish of his wand, and the students watched in awe as he gave a demonstration. Pearl white feathers flew in all different directions, becoming objects for practice and settling on the tables in front of them. Each first year had a feather of their own, and Lestrade poked his entertainingly with his wand.

"We must practice the movement first before I let you off. Here's how it must be accomplished." Professor Flitwick spoke at the same time as he moved his hand, making a waving motion with his wand. "Everyone, you must do the swish and flick! Flick your wrist while you say the spell, otherwise your magic won't be successful. Let's practice!" he exclaimed cheerfully, raising both his hands. "Say it with me."

"Swish and flick," came the words from all the students' mouths, and most of the eleven‒year‒olds finished their movement with a flick of their wrist. John, being ambidextrous, tested his wand in both his hands. He decided the feeling felt better and more secure in his left hand, so he concluded that would be his dominant hand with magic.

"Good! Now, practice away on your feathers! Take your time. I'm not expecting perfection by the end of the period. Use the swish and flick motion, saying  _Wingardium leviosa_. See if you can make your feathers levitate!" He sounded so sure the students were going to master the task, confident, but John and Lestrade looked at each other with doubt.

John was having a hard time getting his feather to rise off the desk. The first couple times it didn't work at all. The feather just sat there plainly, acting as if it was purposefully taunting him at his failure. Then John remembered he wasn't pronouncing the spell right, so he corrected himself.

Lestrade was having an even worse time than John was. He got angry at his feather and stopped attempting to make it levitate three‒quarters of the way through the period. His eyes went wide in a 'no fair' sort of way when John managed to make his feather hover a few centimeters in the air.

Eventually, the smaller Gryffindor managed to make his feather lift about a foot above his desk, and it was the highest anyone's got in the entire room. "That's rubbish," Greg mumbled, giving Watson the hairy eyeball. "How come yours works and mine doesn't?"

"Dunno. Probably will just take some time. Things like that don't cope straight away," John pointed out as they gathered up their things.

As they left the classroom and were out of earshot from the exit, Lestrade commented on how he thought Charms would go for him all year. And John couldn't wait to tell Sherlock what he'd said, because it made him burst out laughing hysterically.

"Charms…" Lestrade shook his head in a none‒approving way. "Probably not my division."


	9. Say Something

** Chapter Nine **

Say Something

* * *

"Dull and boring" was Sherlock's explanation of Herbology, but then again you could never trust the Ravenclaw with an opinion. John and Lestrade met up with him outside the Great Hall, slouched up against the stone wall with one knee bent and parallel to the floor. He was picking at the Ravenclaw patch sewn to the front of his robes and his tie was flung around his neck.

John was in fact the best dressed of the three. Lestrade had the bottom of his white shirt hanging out from under his grey, red, and gold Gryffindor sweater, and he didn't even have his tie on. John had his tie tucked neatly under the collar of his shirt, which he had to adjust multiple times that day so it wasn't too tight, and his sweater was pulled down all the way to cover his white shirt. All three boys had unhooked the top of their robes, letting them flow freely on either side of their bodies. They all had some sort of weird habit of dressing with their uniforms; Sherlock and his tie, Greg and his shirt, and John tended to roll up his shirt sleeves even when they were under his robes.

"Oh no, wait till you have History of Magic," John corrected as they strolled into the hall for lunch. Lestrade was distractingly swaggering in between the two best friends, making it hard for them to come in contact with one another. They slowed down their paces a bit so the larger Gryffindor could show off in front of them as they lagged behind.

"Why?" Sherlock asked John, cocking an eyebrow.

"Teacher is terrible. He made us read from our textbook, nothing else. You probably wouldn't believe this, but Lestrade fell asleep about fifteen minutes into class."

"Hmm," Sherlock sighed, not surprised in the slightest. He cut in between two Slytherin sisters, making them sneer at him behind his back. "Don't," Sherlock shrugged off, feeling John's temper rise.

"Why not? Why shouldn't I do something about it?" He glanced over his shoulder, glaring at the back of the girls' heads.

"Because there's no need to. You're getting worked up over something stupid, John…"

"Sherlock!" John stopped him in the middle of the aisle, grabbing his upper left arm securely and staring hard into his eyes. "I'm not going to let some random jerk hurt you. Because…I care about you." Sherlock stood still as a statue, noting the seriousness in his friend's voice. He flinched at the sharp pain in his muscles and gave John a look, indicating for him to let go.

"Sorry…" the Gryffindor mumbled, and began walking away ashamed. His cheeks turned bright red as he shoved his hands in his pants' pockets.

Sherlock's eyes became sad.  _What is John playing at?_ he thought. "John?"

"Come on," came the stern voice ten feet away. Sherlock opened his mouth to argue but decided it was best to stay away from John's bad side.

"Hey!" he yelled over the sounds of students chatting all around. Nobody ignored their own conversations to stare at the two boys. "John, I'm sorry…" The shorter boy stopped in his path and turned around to face the Ravenclaw again. "I'm sorry," he repeated.

"Are you really?" John placed his hands on his hips, giving his friend a look and adding some sass to his movement.

"I am. I just…didn't know that you cared so much." Sherlock stared at the floor, hiding his hands behind his back. He heard Watson heave a deep sigh, and when he garnered up the courage to raise his head to face the bolder yet smaller boy he did so. John's face was barely two feet from his own and his expression molded from annoyed to forgiving in a few flat seconds.

"Of course I care," John whispered.  _His puppy dog eyes; how are they real?_ He repeated himself. "Of course. You're my best friend." There was that small squeeze at Sherlock's wrist again. They interchanged the role of squeezing each others' hands as a sign of encouragement. The brunette's mouth was agape and he stared down at where John's fingers were in contact with his wrist. He could feel a heartbeat in his veins as they pressed against John's nails.  _He's selfless, that's what he is. John cares about everyone._

Then he came back to reality and nearly yelled at his buddy in embarrassment. "John! Stop before somebody sees."

John laughed and let his hand fall to his waist. "So what? Oh, you think somebody will get 'ideas'?" John smirked and headed towards the end of the Gryffindor table where Lestrade sat organizing his lunch. Sherlock awkwardly acted normal and adjusted his tie draped around his shoulders before following his friend.

"Well then, if Herbology was 'dull and boring', then how was Potions?" Lestrade asked, completely forgetting that the two boys stood in the middle of the hall for several minutes and had abandoned him.

"It was…entertaining. I don't know if you'd agree. You'd have to meet the teacher."

"Well, that's what you do best," John pointed out, tapping on the table with his left hand beside Holmes's elbow. Sherlock's eyebrow asked the question. "Oh come on." Lestrade was absolutely oblivious as to what they were discussing. Even the smartest person seated together in the group didn't have a clue. "You doing all your experiments back home and mixing various chemicals. The number of times I've seen you do it, I think I would know that you'd enjoy that kind of thing."

Sherlock shrugged and reached down to pull out a book from his bag. He placed  _One Thousand Magic Herbs And Fungi_ on the table before him and flipped open to some of the very first pages.

"So, is the Potions teacher making you read too?" Lestrade asked, biting into his salad.

"Nope," was Sherlock's daft response. "Well, sort of. He wants a two rolls of parchment essay on the history of potion making on his desk by Friday."

" _What?"_  Lestrade's fork clattered onto his plate and he nearly choked on some food stuck in the back of his mouth. "He gives you an essay on the first day? Who would do that? That's just torture." He stopped chewing to run his hands through his hair, grabbed large wads of it so it stuck out even farther in the front.

"Not only that," John paused, staring at his schedule and adding to Lestrade's misery, "we have Potions last class tomorrow. We'll have the least amount of time to write it."

"He could be nice and give your class till Monday," Sherlock rationalized, scanning his fingers over the pages of the fresh‒smelling textbook.

"Unlikely," came Lestrade's non‒positive response from behind his elbow. Sherlock raised an eyebrow in a 'whatever' sort of way and completely overlooked the idea having lunch.

"Well," John tried to change the subject, "at least we have Transfiguration together next. Could be interesting…" He took a swig of milk from his goblet and swallowed heavily. "I have to practice my levitation charm."

" _You_  have to practice?" Lestrade snorted, picking at the tomatoes in his salad now like they were his feather from Charms. "At least you got yours to rise off the table. Mine didn't budge a millimeter."

"Oh, shut up you two," Sherlock butted in, rolling his eyes. John finished chomping on his carrots and stared into space at the taller boy's book. His eyes were locked on it, and Holmes showed no interest whatsoever in the two Gryffindors he was sitting with.

"Hello!" came a familiar shy voice from across the table. John lifted his head to find Molly Hooper rushing over to them, her yellow Hufflepuff badge standing out significantly on her chest against the black background. "Would you mind if I joined you?" she asked as she stopped next to the taller Gryffindor.

"Molly!" Lestrade beamed, his mood enlightening at her presence. "Please, come sit down." He welcomed her onto the bench to his right and John gave her a small smile when she caught his eyes. Her bright ginger hair was in her usual ponytail, and she flattened her short, grey skirt under her as she took her seat at the table with the three boys.

"Oi John, pass the salt will you?" Lestrade motioned his hand towards some dishes farther up the table.

"You eat salt on you salad?" John sounded disgusted as he passed over the container.

"Shut up. I bet I'm not the one who does."

"So…" Molly attempted to start a conversation. "How did you like History of Magic today, John? Lestrade?" She stole a piece of celery from the nearest bowl and took a bite.

"Useless." Greg shook his head and lowered his arm onto the table, his elbow barely on the edge. "Professor Binns is a lame teacher. I can sense it already."

"Yeah, he's a bit…odd," Molly admitted. "I would have sat up front with you two, but someone else got there first."

"I know," John said, gesturing with his fork, "I didn't notice you were in our class until I realized that we were with the Hufflepuffs, and then I saw you across the room. You can sit with us next time for sure."

Molly smiled, glad that someone so freely was letting her fit in and belong. "Yeah, I kinda drifted off halfway through class. Everyone did." She shook her head and muttered something about being a terrible person before asking Lestrade to pass her the bread bowl.

"Sherlock?" John tapped on his friend's shoulder to make him take his eyes off the book he was stuck to.

"What, John?" he asked without taking his eyes from page twelve.

"Will you come outside with me? Just for a little while?" John knew Sherlock wasn't fond of nature, but he wanted to discuss something with his schoolmate.

The taller boy was reluctant to join his friend but gave in eventually. He shoved his book back into his bag and followed John out of the hall, both boys lugging their school supplies. The massive front doors of the castle were propped open, and a cool September breeze was freely blowing in.

The view from outside the front doors was spectacular. The Black Lake that they'd crossed the previous night was off in the distance to the right, and behind its far shore a cluster of trees grew, casting a gloomy shadow in their depths. A small cabin in the shape of an octagon sat on the edge of the Forbidden Forest. And there, way over to the right hand side was the Quidditch pitch, the grass a brilliant shade of green, the area for the fans the different colors of the four Hogwarts houses, and the three hoops on either end of the pitch shining silver in the sunlight.

"Where are we going?" Sherlock asked, taking long strides behind the shorter Gryffindor and somehow managing not to catch up with him.

"Dunno," John concluded dreamily. "Just exploring I guess."  _Okay…_ Sherlock thought, confused and waiting for more words to be said. He sped up his pace to become level with the boy in front of him. Huffing and almost out of breath, Holmes glanced down at Watson.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"You said you wanted to talk to me," Sherlock reminded him, but he was sure John didn't forget.

"Yes, I did." The blond shuffled his feet in between a few steps and readjusted his bag strap on his shoulder. "It…it's nothing important, mind you. So, if you don't want to talk, I understand…" His voice was a little shaky, like he'd just broken something made of glass.

"No, it's fine. Carry on." Sherlock wouldn't admit it to John yet, but he loved talking to the lion. John always comforted him. He could tell anything to John, even after only knowing him for five months. There was something about the boy with unique blue eyes that stood out to Sherlock, and that something was what connected his heart to the smaller buddy's.

"Okay, um…" John didn't know where to begin. He wet his lips before continuing. "Sherlock, why aren't you trying to make friends?"

 _What? That's the most random question at this moment._ "I‒I…" Sherlock stuttered, and then he added while changing his mood, "Why do you care? It's our first day here." He stopped walking on the spot and John took a few steps ahead of him, not processing the fact that Holmes wasn't following him.

"Because." Sherlock raised his eyebrow, fishing for a better explanation. "I‒I don't want people calling you —"

"Calling me what?" the demand was almost harsh, and Sherlock's green eyes contracted to squint at the blond‒haired boy.

John stumbled to find the right word. He scanned his eyes over the ground multiple times before lifting his pupils cautiously with a nervous tension boiling in his ears.

Finally, the word came to John's mind. He didn't want to say it out loud, but he needed to spit it out. It was the exact same word his sister had called him back home over the summer, and he hated saying it out loud. "A freak."

Sherlock froze. Not in horror or fear, but in shock. John had a déjà vu moment, having a flashback to the night he and Harriet had had their fight; the night John had revealed to his older sibling that he could produce magic. Except this time, it was backwards. Their places had been switched, and instead of the older girl standing disapprovingly at John there was an older boy with messy curls in his hair and piercing green eyes. The Pureblood also hadn't taken the name so personally like the half‒blood had.

"You're worried they'll talk behind my back…" Sherlock slowly proceeded with the conversation.

"What?"

"You think it's from the deductions I make and how I refuse to talk to people. Except you," he added quickly, seeing the upset look on John's face.

"No, it's just…" John paused. "You just never try to  _make_  friends, that's all."

"I don't have friends." John felt hurt. His heart sank deep in his chest and he pouted right in front of the Ravenclaw. Without bothering another moment, the first year's feet starting carrying him back towards the castle. He didn't raise his head to glance at his friend as he went by, his black robes swaying behind him in the wind.  _I'm wasting my time,_ John thought, shoving his hands back into his pockets and feeling the warm wood of his wand against the fabric of his pants and the skin on his fingers.

"I mean it, John," Sherlock said from over his shoulder, his voice rising with every step the lion took farther from the eagle. John slowed to a halt and rotated on the heel of his foot.

"I don't have friends," Sherlock informed him for the second time. His eyebrows suddenly expanded to the sides of his forehead and distress filled his irises.  _That came out wrong,_ he thought.  _That was rude, Sherlock._ He quickly fixed his mistake after insulting himself before the younger wizard had the chance to dash away. "I've just got one."

 _Is he being serious?_ John was easy to give in, unlike the genius boy pleading nine yards away.  _Have I known him long enough to trust him?_ Watson went to open his mouth but was cut off when Sherlock's deep voice spoke again, gently to calm John's tension. "You are amazing. You are fantastic. You'll never be the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light, you are unbeatable."

John lifted his head, stunned at what the first year had just said to him. When he completely had his head tilted up, Sherlock's face was inches from his own. All John could manage to say was, "What?" Sherlock didn't respond.

There was a tiny squeeze on John's right wrist.

"Come on," he encouraged, patting John on his shoulder, "we have to get to Transfiguration."

"Sherlock…" John nodded down to where their hands were almost clasped. When the older wizard didn't correspond, his friend spoke for him. "People might talk."

Sherlock shrugged, letting John's hand float down back to his side. "People do little else."

He winked to be cheeky.

* * *

"Where's Lestrade?" Sherlock and John sat next to each other in their Transfiguration class, scanning the room and catching no sight of the other Gryffindor. Professor McGonagall had introduced them briefly to the subject she taught at Hogwarts and had sent them off to practice simple spells to transfigure skimpy objects. All the students were attempting to turn a quill into a pencil at a beginner level to start the year.

"Might have gone to the wrong class," Sherlock suggested, tapping on his quill. He wasn't getting very far. His quill had turned the yellow color of a pencil and the tip had changed to look like lead, but it still squirted ink from the end ironically. John had done no progress on his quill at all. The best he'd managed to produce from his magic was making the feather balance on its tip.

"Is there a trick to doing this or something?" he asked Sherlock, who was concentrating very intently on his quill but still didn't have any success. "Cause I seem to be getting nowhere." John frowned at his feathery‒white writing utensil. It wobbled on its end and thus floated down to land on the polished table.

"You're not waving your wand the right way," the cleverer wizard told him. John gave his hand a dirty look, even though he knew the spell started with his brain. "Although, it could just be the fact that your wand hasn't completely bonded with you yet; it could still be trying to get to know you and how you learn." Holmes waved his wand with a flick of his wrist, and the end of the pointed feather transformed into a pink pencil eraser.

"Practice makes perfect," John sighed, shaking his head and frowning so one side of his mouth was higher than the other.

Just then, the wooden door at the back of the classroom busted open and Lestrade rushed in, huffing and puffing with gasps of air. Only a few faint voices were heard as the noise in the room died down and the attention turned to the late first year.

Professor McGonagall rose from her high‒backed chair behind her desk. "Excuse me, but my lesson began quite a while ago," was all she was able to compliment.

"I'm sorry, Professor," Lestrade gasped, rubbing both his hands over a throbbing pain in his ribs. "I couldn't find the classroom."

"Perhaps you should get yourself a map then Mister —" she paused, not knowing his name.

"Lestrade. Greg Lestrade, Professor." He straightened his posture as he neglected to introduce himself previously.

"Well, I'll let it slide for today Mr. Lestrade, but be sure not to be late again." She pointed her finger at him sternly so he got the message clearly.

"I won't, Professor McGonagall," he promised, bowing his head. "I'll make sure of it."

"Thank you. You may take your seat now. Keep transforming everyone!" she encouraged, taking her seat back behind her desk and adjusting her emerald wizard hat over her the tight bun in her hair.

Greg let his bag fall to the floor next to Sherlock's leg, pulling over a chair to join the two boys. "What are we doing?" he asked, still inhaling large breaths through his lungs.

"Here," John said, handing him an extra feather. "We're trying to transform them into Muggle pencils." He told Lestrade the spell they were using, but he wasn't paying much attention.

"Oh no, not the feathers again," he mumbled, groaning at the thought of Charms class not two hours earlier.

"Hey, freak." The obnoxious voice came from behind Sherlock's back and he swiveled around in his chair. Sally Donovan sat behind him with the pretty girl named Mary Morstan settled beside her. John felt his cheeks blush a little.  _Why am I blushing?_ he thought.  _I'm not that interested in her…_ He may have been wrong with himself.  _Maybe I am developing a girl crush._

"Nice to see you too," Lestrade shot at her before Sherlock could make some rude comment right back.

"So, you're hanging around with us Gryffindors are you?" She seemed like it was a crime for members of houses to talk to one another.

"Problem?" The only Ravenclaws Sherlock knew where the four boys from his dorm, and they were all idiots and boring.

"So, is it true then?" she continued, without remarking about his friendships.

"Is what true?"

"That you can tell someone's whole life story by looking at them?" The doe‒faced girl was tugging at the sleeve of Sally's robes, begging her to cease the teasing statements and phrases.

"Why? Would you like me to try?" Sherlock seemed deeply amused by her interest and immediately began making deductions about her in his head. Before he could announce them for proof, he was interrupted by Professor McGonagall spotting them.

"Mr. Holmes, Ms. Donovan, you may socialize, but I suggest you learn to multitask. Get back to work, please." She adjusted her spectacles on her nose and watched them with eyes like a hawk. John had his hand positioned in the right place just in case something sketchy happened, but he couldn't punch someone from his own house, even if they were nosy. He wasn't fond of receiving detention on his first day anyways.

Sherlock turned back around in his seat to face the front of the room. He elbowed John on his hip and leaned over to whisper into his ear. "She always argues about everything. Don't mess with her unless you can create a decent fight." He started to go back to his transformations but stopped and leaned back in to comment again. "She's also from a really poor family."

"Sherlock…" John warned, his low voice coming in one sharp tone.

"Just saying." He smirked being his usual know‒it‒all self, and with a tiny swish of his hand completely transformed his quill successfully into a pencil.

"Show‒off," Lestrade moaned.

* * *

"So, you 'couldn't find the classroom'?" John joked as the two Gryffindors exited the front doors to the castle, heading to the Quidditch pitch for their first flying lesson. John bid Sherlock good luck as he headed off in the direction for History of Magic, motioning with his hands that he might fall asleep because of the boredom.

"It's true!" Greg exclaimed. "I was going to wait for you two to come back, but I didn't want to be late. Figures, I was late for class anyway." He strolled along the grass with his hands in his pockets, chest held high like he was a king. The bottom of his white shirt still hung carelessly out from the bottom of his sweater.

When they arrived at the Quidditch pitch, they found about a dozen students already setting down their belongings on some of the nearby stands. A familiar face rushed over to them as they joined their class with the Hufflepuffs.

"You ready to take flying lessons, Molly?" She debated with herself and made many different faces but eventually got out her decision. "Yeah, why not? I may be a little clumsy, but I'm not too afraid."

"Good for you," Lestrade grinned, patting her in between her shoulder blades. As John dropped his school bag onto the grass, a witch in her forties swept out onto the field, her black and white striped robes flowing behind her. In the middle of the field, perfectly aligned were two rows of broomsticks. The teacher approached the brooms and the students began to gather around her.

"Welcome students! My name is Madam Hooch." She addressed the class and there was a cheerful and polite response back. "Welcome to your first flying lesson. Today, hopefully most of you will be able to successfully ride a broomstick for the first time. But first, we must practice. Step up to your brooms." She motioned for the students to stand next one of the sweepers, and about a dozen pairs of feet shuffled in the grass and dirt.

"Now, what you want to do is stick your right hand over your broom and say 'up'." John and Molly exchanged looks.  _This isn't as hard as it looks,_ John thought, a smile tugging at his lips. He moved his non‒dominant hand over the broom lying on the ground to his right. He spread his fingers out wide and all around him voices were ringing in his ears as they tried to make the brooms float off the ground.

John noticed that not all the brooms were rising to their callers. He tried himself, hoping the cleaning tool would response to the call of his words. "Up!" Instantly, the long, wooden ride lifted gracefully through the air and the student was able to grab it. It was like watching a magnet being pulled to his hand.

Lestrade gave him a look like he was insane. "What?" John replied, shrugging his shoulders. "You try." So, Lestrade gave it a go and found better results than he expected. The first time he yelled, "Up!" all his broom did was give a slight twitch and fall back down to the earth.

When he attempted the second time, his broom too rose to greet his hand. He expressed his wide grin in pleasure and laughed at all the kids who had failed to get their brooms to be held in their palms. Even Molly had a bit of a hard time, but after a few angry shouts it gave in and she grasped her long vehicle in her hand as well. A few of the kids simply bent down to pick up their brooms after they'd had enough and cheated, and once all the brooms were off the ground Madam Hooch spoke again.

"Now, in order to kick off the ground and be successful at flying, you must have a firm grip on the handle. So, everyone mount your brooms." The students did as they were told, and John made sure both his hands were secure on the long stick of flat wood.

"When I blow my whistle, I want all of you to kick off from the ground. For now, just learn to keep your brooms steady and under control. From there we'll proceed to flying around a bit. Wait for my signal. Three…Two…One…" She blew hard on her whistle, making it shriek into the September air. John kicked hard off the ground and he felt his body lift above the small crowd. Lestrade, Molly, and only a few others had got up the courage to push off the turf.

John found the broom remarkably easy to control. Whenever he turned the hilt to the right, it did as he told it to and swerved the matching pathway. He hovered in the air, watching a few of his fellow flyers struggle with their brooms. Cautiously, John leaned ever so slightly forward and his weight applied on the broom as he touched back down on the field. Lestrade watched John and followed his instructions he hadn't given, but since he watched the smaller housemate he knew what to do.

"You there!" Madam Hooch yelled, pointing at the eleven‒year‒old. "What's your name?"

"John Watson."

"Show me that again." He freely did so. She looked impressed and gave him special privileges. "Try flying around the stadium a bit," Madam Hooch told him. John didn't argue or question why, but instead kicked off the ground again. "And you can too," she added, pointing at Lestrade.

John loved the feeling of the cool breeze against his face as he sped over the students. It reminded him of driving a car, except without all the extra buttons and switches. He found it incredibly easy to steer in any direction, and he heard a girl from down below shout, "How does he do that?" Clearly some people were jealous, and John smirked at his skill.

Madam Hooch let him and Lestrade zoom around the stadium for most of the class, and even she marveled at their insane talent. She'd never seen such excellent first year flyers; at least, not in a long time. Eventually, Molly was able to push off the ground and fly once around the stadium, but her shaky hands couldn't last long on the flying object.

John became so natural at flying in his first hour of the experience that he felt like he was riding the wind. When the lesson came to a close, the amateur didn't want to hand back the broom that he'd become so close to, but he had to because it was school property and didn't belong to him sadly.

* * *

"That was crazy, John!" Molly commented as they made their back to the castle. Watson couldn't wait to tell Sherlock all about his new skill, because he was sure his best friend would want to hear about it. "Where'd you learn to fly like that?"

"I‒I've never flown before," John admitted.  _I must be really good from the way they're marveling so much._ "That was my first time."

"You're kidding me, right?" Lestrade nudged him, his eyes going wide.

"Nope. Hey, you didn't do so bad yourself. Same with you, Molly." The Hufflepuff blushed at the compliment.

"Well, we're done with classes for today," the ginger said, pulling out two textbooks from her bag and hugging them to her chest. "So, what do we do now?"

"I suppose we should head back to our common rooms," Lestrade suggested the idea, and Molly agreed quickly.

"Maybe later," John told them. "I might meet up with Sherlock and see how his other class went this afternoon. Besides, then we can have fun practicing Charms again," he said, nudging the black‒haired lion with a teasing and ridiculous smirk plastered on his face. Lestrade rolled his eyes and Hooper giggled.

And with that, John left them to carry on with their conversation. Before he was completely out of earshot, he caught a few words Greg shared with Molly. "I swear, they're inseparable those two." And John smiled, because what everyone thought was undeniably the truth.

* * *

As John walked by himself to the History of Magic classroom so he could find Sherlock, he passed the hallway that led down to the dungeons. A group of Slytherin girls were lurking nearby and he bent his head over as he speed‒walked by, doing his best to block out their hisses. One of them tried to smile and show that she was truly friendly, but unfortunately John didn't catch her white teeth showing.

He wasn't paying attention to where he was going as well, and the result was that he ran into a boy who was much larger than his size. John didn't know whether to be annoying or careful as he raised his head to apologize.

"Oh, sorry. My fault."

"Hello, John," came the same brotherly taunting and powerful voice. The younger kid could recognize that voice any day of the week from the number of times he'd visited the Holmes' mansion back home.

Black umbrella acting as a cane, smug look on his face, Mycroft Holmes towered over the first year Gryffindor, emerald and silver prefect badge gleaming on his chest.


	10. On Our Way

** Chapter Ten **

On Our Way

* * *

"Congratulations."

John thought he heard incorrectly so he gave Mycroft a baffled look. "Sorry…What?"

"I believe I made myself clear." Mycroft didn't need to repeat himself. "Congratulations on being sorted in Gryffindor. I'm sure your parents will be pleased."

"Oh, I haven't told them yet." John considered Mycroft's hint and thought about going back up to the common room later to write a letter to his family. After all, he was going to practice Charms with Lestrade before dinner that night.

"Well, I'm sure they'll want to hear from you as soon as possible." Mycroft pulled out a pocket watch from his Slytherin robes and glanced at the time. "I suppose you're looking for my brother."

"Yes, I am," the shorter of the two gleamed, perking up. John gave him a hopeful look and ran his hand up and down his tan bag strap. "Would you happen to know where he is?" he asked very politely. John always hated chatting with the older Holmes because he'd always been annoying and disturbing back home when he came to visit Sherlock. He didn't try to show his bored tone though as he talked with the sixteen‒year‒old, digging to get an answer out of him.

"After having a tedious chat with him, he claimed he was going to the library to do his Potions essay. There's no guaranteed you'll find him." He tapped his umbrella on the marble floor three times.

"Right…Thanks!" John said, awkwardly waving and pushing past the older Holmes brother. He made his way up the marble staircase alone, exploring various corridors as he walked past.

 _I could find something new here every day,_ John thought, picturing himself and Sherlock roaming the halls after hours and causing trouble.

* * *

"There you are!" Sherlock was hidden in a small corner of the library in between two bookshelves, nose poured over some parchment. He was writing very frantically, clearly trying to dump all of his thoughts into the essay before they escaped from his mind. When John approached him, the eagle didn't take his eyes from his homework.

"Sherlock?"

No response. John even sat down across from him and he didn't look up.

"Sherlock!" John said louder, snapping his fingers over his homework.

"W‒What?" The Ravenclaw stopped scribbling wildly and looked up to see who had called his name. "Oh, hi John," he said, placing his quill back in his bottle of ink.

"Why so wrapped up in homework?" John asked, staring at the neat cursive scripted on the parchment. "You said it wasn't due till Friday."

"It's not," Sherlock said positively, blowing lightly on the ink so it would dry. "I‒I just thought I'd get it over with now before I get more homework later."

"Ah. Well, don't stress yourself too much," John comforted, extending out his arm to grip Sherlock's wrist. "After all, it is our first day." Sherlock heaved a deep sigh and frowned at his essay.

"You're right John…"

"What?"

"You're right. I'm trying too hard already. I don't even know why. All of this is quite easy for me."

"I wonder why," John chuckled, looking at Sherlock's face, but the brunette wasn't looking back. "You've got the brain of a scientist." The edge of Holmes's mouth twisted into a grin. "Sorry I disturbed you though…I feel bad."

"Oh no, it's fine. Personally, I'm glad you did." The younger Holmes brother punched John lightly on his upper arm. The Gryffindor returned the favor, tugging on the sleeve of Sherlock's robes.

"Well, you can keep writing if you want. Mycroft reminded me to send a letter to my family back home. Might as well do it here so you're not alone." He bent over the side of the table, rummaging through his bag for his quill, ink bottle, and a blank sheet of parchment. He found his writing utensil and paper but the ink bottle refused to show itself. John eventually scoffed it from the bottom corner, hidden in the shadows among a few textbooks and his Pocket Sneakoscope, which he'd carelessly thrown in at the last minute to see if it would catch any suspicious. Luckily his bag shielded the flashing lights it gave off, and it wasn't noisy enough to be detected through the fabric. Quite a useful little tool.

"Tell your family I said hi and wish them all well," Sherlock said, returning back to his essay but slowing down with his writing pace.

"Will do," John grinned.

He sat in silence and pondered the words he would write on the blank parchment. The lion rolled over the thoughts in his mind, debating how he would begin explaining all the information that had happened in under forty‒eight hours. Finally, coming to a satisfied conclusion, he dipped his quill into the pitch black ink and began to write.

_Dear Mum, Dad, and Harriet,_

_I hope you're all doing well. My first day here went really well and I met a few more friends on the train ride here. But, for the most exciting news, I got sorted into Gryffindor! Pretty rough having to go through sorting as the first thing after you get off the train, but Sherlock was there to help me through it for the most part. He says hello by the way and was sorted into Ravenclaw._

_Greg Lestrade is a pretty decent bloke so far; funny and full of himself in a way, but I'm in a few classes with him. Molly Hooper is that sort of girl anyone would want as a friend; strong yet shy, she's very loyal to everyone. I haven't talked much with her, since she was sorted into Hufflepuff and has different classes than me._

_First day went pretty well. Not too much homework, just have to practice some spells. I'm sure the homework will pile up quickly though. I've also got really good at flying a broomstick, and I've only had one lesson so far! Even Molly and Lestrade were impressed!_

_That's all for now. Again, I wish you all well. So does Sherlock. I promise I'll keep in touch later when school gets more exciting._

_I love you._

_-John Watson_

* * *

"This is preposterous," Lestrade mumbled the next day after dinner, setting out supplies needed to write a paper on the table before him. "I mean, first day of Potions, with the  _Slytherins,_  and Snape gives us a two page essay!" He slammed both fists on the table before the roaring fire and John simply sank into the nearest squashy armchair.

"Yeah, he's a git. I can already tell." John sighed. He already knew the essay was coming with Sherlock frantically scribbling his own a day prior, but this meant he had one less day to complete it than the Ravenclaw did.

"Did you see the way he looked at me too?" Greg grumbled. His fellow housemate shook his head. "He looked at me like I was a slug or something; like he might throw up if I even move a muscle." Lestrade unscrewed the cap on his ink bottle and a single drop of the writing liquid dribbled onto a corner of his parchment. His face shriveled up and he wrinkled his nose. "I can't believe he took five points from Gryffindor just because I couldn't answer a question…" His head shook in disappointment.

"He almost took five from me too," John told him, crossing one leg over the other and resting his hands behind his neck.

"You're kidding me right?" John wasn't kidding. "What, does Snape just hate Gryffindor house or something?"

"From what Sherlock told me about what Mycroft knows, yep. He's head of Slytherin house, so he loves his own students but absolutely hates the other houses; especially if the kids in them are stupid or, don't use their brains as I should say." He shuffled the pile of books stacked on the table in front of him and opened  _One Thousand Magical Herbs And Fungi_ to page ten. Bored, Lestrade flipped through his copy and studied the colorful moving pictures on the pages.

"I can't see how Sherlock is into Potions," Lestrade muttered, scanning a page and stopping at what looked like an image of a poisonous flower. "I mean, no offense, but the teacher's a —"

"Bastard?" John finished for him.

"Yeah."

John stared out the Gryffindor common room window. In the limited view he could see a part of the Black Lake with the ghostly trees in the distance, along with the edge of the darkened Quidditch pitch. The three sports hoops reflected the moonlight onto the rooftops of the castle towers. The navy blue sky was blotched with grey puffs of clouds, each containing a silver lining. The fire in his own common room was giving a contradictory glow to his symmetrical face, and so he had red marks tinted on his cheeks.

"But what do you think of the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Bob Franklin?" Watson asked, turning his attention back to Lestrade, who sat on the floor staring into the flames of the fire.

Greg craned his neck in a so‒so motion. "He's okay. I think he'll get better once we know him more and have more classes with him." John nodded in agreement, thinking that was a reasonable hypothesis. He adjusted his paper on the table, positioning his hand over the invisible essay he had laid out in his mind.

"Now, where to begin?" he debated, flicking the end of the quill off his chin.

Lestrade stirred just as John positioned his quill to write. "There," he sighed, removing his hand from his essay. "Done."

"What?" the shorter boy exclaimed, giving his new friend a look. "How?"

"Well, at least with the first paragraph," he corrected, lounging back on his outstretched arms so his full weight was put into the joints in his shoulders.

John fixed the poised quill in his palm, making sure his wrist didn't scrape the parchment. "It sucks being left‒handed sometimes," he stated. "Cause if I smudge my homework, I'll be pissed off…"

* * *

During the next weekend, news had spread through the school that the dementors of Azkaban were arriving any day. Most if not all of the students were frightened at the fact that Azkaban creatures would guard the school, but a select few were thrilled and wanted to see the creatures up close, one of which was Sherlock. John looked at him like he was crazy, and because of his loyalty warned Sherlock to stay away from them.

"I think they'll be fascinating," he shared his opinion over breakfast one day. "I mean, I'm not going to attack them or anything, I just want to get a good look." Molly passed him the tray of bacon and he munched happily on the meat.

"Still, you actually want to see those things? They practically provide the most disturbing sight for wizards," Lestrade stated, moving his elbow so John could scoot in closer as he chewed on his breakfast in silence.

"Everybody needs a good kick in their career," Sherlock said. "Why not now? I guess this is mine."

"Well, I'm certainly not taking a chance with those creatures." Molly spoke up and played a part in their conversation.

"Molly, you're scared of everything that resembles a bug or doesn't look attractive to you," the taller Gryffindor teased, looking across the table where she sat next to the lone Ravenclaw.

"Not…everything." Hooper sank her head down in shame. She perked up quickly though and gave Lestrade a stern stare. "But I certainly should be terrified of a creature that has the ability to kill a student in a lesser time than a serious injury can!"

Her words were so fierce she managed to silence all three boys in shock. They were interrupted before one of them could comment on her retort by a voice no one wanted to witness.

"Hey, freak." Sherlock rolled his eyes as Sally Donovan came sauntering up behind him, hands on her hips. John tried to hold himself together; it had been six days since she'd first insulted him during Transfiguration.

"Yes?" Sherlock mocked, giving her a smug smile and asking as politely as he could what she wanted. Mary Morstan was nowhere to be seen, but instead the Hufflepuff boy who glared at everyone stood behind her shoulder. All three of the friends around Sherlock shifted in their chairs to get a better look.

"You."

"Me?" Sherlock pointed at his chest, acting stupid on purpose to make Donovan get to her point.

"You never proved you could tell my whole life story to me." She added an act of defiance to the end of her sentence and pursed her lips, thinking she was more superior than her fellow schoolmates. Sherlock looked her up and down twice before turning back to her and getting off topic.

"You haven't introduced your friend to me yet." He gave her the eyebrow but she didn't fall for it.

"Prove it first."  _Stubborn,_ Sherlock deduced, rolling his eyes.

"No," John butted in, but Sherlock grabbed his upper arm across the table as he remained seated. His muscles were rock hard and bulging against his fingers. "You have no business to demand something out of any of us," he stuck up for all of them, turning the ability of his fiery personality on Sally.

"You come from a poor family," Sherlock started, ignoring his best friend's denial. "Going by your robes, which are second hand, you can't afford much. That's also why you don't have a pet. Both of your parents are Muggles, and so when you discovered you were a witch you told everyone. That's why you're so snobby and full of yourself."

"Sherlock!" Lestrade yelled from the opposite bench, his face staring at the consulting child with his mouth open. But the younger Holmes brother ignored Greg and continued on his rant.

"I can tell from the way you just ignored to introduce your friend that you're rebellious; you'll do whatever your mind forces you to in order to win an argument. You don't like to be proven wrong. Well, there you go. I just proved you wrong. You think you're so smart and the best here, well your statement's lacking. No wonder the sorting hat didn't place you in Ravenclaw; you can't use your brain to save your life."

 _Oh, that was an embarrassing burn,_ Molly thought in her mind, her mouth hanging open.

With that Sherlock rose from his seat, fixing the collar of his white shirt and tucking his teasing Ravenclaw tie into his blazer, making sure Donovan could see.

"No need to introduce your friend anyway," Sherlock told her. "His name is Anderson." Holmes giggled at the hilarious gasp expression on her face in his head. Her big, bushy hair stood out on end, making her face look extremely ludicrous and horror‒struck. Just to piss her off even more, Sherlock Holmes brushed off the front of his suit, grinned, and turned slowly away on his feet.

 _That showed her._ His grin became wider as he strolled from the hall, leaving Donovan complaining to the three first years as he shoved another delicious maple‒smoked piece of bacon into his mouth, enjoying the taste just as much as the facial complexion on the Gryffindor's face. He disappeared around the corner to block out Sally's displeased shouts.

"He had no right to do that!" she screeched, pointing as his robes swished around the entrance to the Great Hall.

"Actually, he did," Lestrade said, looking at her and defending his rebuttal. She glared at him with lips puffed out and her tongue visible behind her teeth.  _Cavity,_ Greg noticed the clue, spotting a silver crown hidden in the back of her mouth. "You asked for it," he concluded.

"And who are you to defend him?" Sally snorted.

John was the first of the three friends on his feet. "We didn't defend him." He spoke to her from the aisle between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables, raising his voice so she could hear him from a quarter of the way across the hall. "If you didn't notice, I tried to  _stop_ him before he insulted you. You need to straighten out your priorities." His robes were lying on the bench next to his housemate, and he stood before Donovan wearing his white shirt and Gryffindor tie. The sight was captivating; both lions were as tall as the each other yet John was much more muscular and could take the girl any day of the week. "So don't place the blame on any of us."

"Sally, this is ridiculous." It was the opening time they'd heard Anderson speak. His voice was flat and deep, and he watched them with demon eyes. John did a little jaw twitch prior to the Hufflepuff speaking again. "Let's just leave these gentlemen and lady…" he indicated Molly with flashing pupils, "to themselves."

Watson increased the intensity of his breathing to get the two bullies to bugger off. His eyes remained locked on the lion and badger until they had completely left the hall, no doubt judging them and whispering behind their backs.

He felt a tug at the end of his sleeve and the hotness of Lestrade's body heat he gave off. "If that brat would just keep her mouth shut, we wouldn't have this problem," he grumbled.

"I need to have a little discussion…" The shortest friend took off before either of the first years could argue with him, heading for the only place in the entire castle he knew the Ravenclaw would head for.

* * *

Footsteps were bounding through the silent library, echoing off the distant shelves but being blocked by the rows of books with bumpy pages. Sherlock sat on the floor, knees hunched up to his chest, bouncing a rubber ball off a piece of furniture in front of him. The trotting was becoming louder with each step, and soon a figure stopped in the corner of his eye.

"What the hell was that?" Sherlock didn't need to turn his head to know who the electrifying voice belonged to. He didn't want to speak with his best friend at the moment; in fact, he didn't even want to look at him. All he wanted to do was be excluded from the world in the small corner of the library.

There was no response from the taller boy, just a casual shrug of the shoulders.

"You don't know…" John's voice was rising and several people stopped attempting to finish their homework to stare at the petite first year. He caught the eye of a fifth year Ravenclaw girl snarling at him, so he made a waving off motion with his hand and stepped out of view from the main aisle in the center of the study.

"Sherlock —" John started again in a hard whisper, but the older boy cut him off and the blond threw up his hands in innocence.

"What? She deserved it! She asked for it, so I gave it to her." He caught the ball in his hand and squeezed it hard, making it sink into a cylinder rather than a sphere shape. John could tell Sherlock was in a bad mood, so he proceeded to the next part of the conversation carefully.

"Yeah, I admit she was snobby, but you didn't need to shut her out like that. She tried to blame it on us after you left." He shoved his thumb over his shoulder to indicate what happened back in the Great Hall. "Come on Sherlock, behave!"

"What did you expect me to do? Just shrug it off and keep having her call me freak?" John's eyes went both wide and sad at the mention of the name, and he stared down at the floor, drawing circles with his foot on the floorboards.

"At least now she'll stay away from me…" Sherlock muttered, throwing the rubber ball so hard in hit a book on the shelf and sent it skimming an inch backwards. John's chest sank a few centimeters as he saw his depressed friend curled up in the corner.

An awkward moment of silence passed between the two buddies in which John stared at the floor and Sherlock gazed out the window. Finally, John spoke up and broke the strengthening chain.

"I don't want that…"

"What?" It was the first time Sherlock had looked up at John since he'd came yelling at him.

"That's not what I want. You don't deserve to be called freak. I just wish you'd try to make friends and not reject them, that's all." His nervous feet could be heard scraping over the squeaky wood, coming closer to Sherlock's huddled figure. Watson sank down to sit across from the taller boy, legs fully outstretched and sandy hair brushed off his forehead.

"Then I need some help."

"What?" The unheard‒of thought blurted from Sherlock's mouth without warning or rejection.

"You heard me perfectly; I'm not saying it again." He gave John a look, and his lion couldn't help but show the small smile on his lips.

"You…Sherlock Holmes, need advice?"

"Not just ordinary advice. Advice from my most trusted friend." John's head cocked to the side in curiosity.

"So, will you, John Watson, help me?" The question sounded unsure, but his eyes told John he was being serious.  _He's saying it like it's an oath or something,_ John noticed.

 _Damn my confusion_ , the Gryffindor cursed at himself. "Help you with what, Sherlock?"

One word escaped from the consulting boy's mouth. "Everything."

* * *

"I already know how to disarm people," Sherlock complained during their fifth Defense Against the Dark Arts class. He stared glumly at the words on the pages in their textbook, knowing the spell was  _Expelliarmus_. When successfully mastered, your opponent's wand would fly out of their hand, leaving them defenseless.

"Well, others don't," Lestrade informed him, learning how to properly pronounce the spell.

"Doesn't seem so hard," John said, closing his book and pulling his wand from beneath his robes. "Want to test it out, Sherlock?"

"Yes. Finally," Sherlock sighed, jumping up eagerly from his chair. A large empty space had been cleared in the center of the room for practicing, and partners were split up to try disarming one another. Sherlock and John went all the way to the far side of the room, closest to the left wall yet making sure they had enough room to spread their arms wide.

"You go first," Sherlock nodded to John, who stood ten feet away with his wand held by his side.

"Why is it always me?"

"Dunno. Don't ask questions, just practice." John did as he was told and raised his wand. He had an unsure expression on his face, but nonetheless yelled, " _Expelliarmus!"_  at Sherlock. His opponent's wand didn't fly out of his hand. Instead, John's wand twitched and tried to escape out of his own fingertips. He gazed confused at his wand and his professor spotted the problem before Sherlock could correct the Gryffindor.

"You're flourishing your wand a little too much," Professor Franklin told him. His brown robes were stained with coffee and his white hair was slicked back with hair gel. His eyes were hard almost all the time, but he could give you an encouraging smile whenever it deemed appropriate. "Try not to flick your wrist so much."

More confident, John prepared himself to fire again at Sherlock, this time paying attention to the way he had to cast the spell. Professor Franklin started to walk away to observe the other students, but John knew he was watching him again.

" _Expelliarmus!"_  Sherlock's long wand flew out of his hand, surfing through the air. John caught it as the stick came into his possession, and Holmes smiled as Watson threw his friend's wand back directly afterwards.

"Nice job," Sherlock commented. Without warning, he fired right back and yelled, " _Expelliarmus!"_  sending John's wand out of his reach towards the older boy. John sighed in a 'no fair' way as Sherlock smirked, gripping both wands securely in his hand. John made a waving motion with his fingers, indicating for Sherlock to give him his wand back.

"Alright show‒off," he teased, catching his stick in both hands, "Bring it on."

* * *

John Watson walked casually with Molly Hooper on their third Thursday from Herbology when an unknown Gryffindor fourth year came to a sudden halt in their path. Molly stopped, startled, nearly dropping her books while John gave the girl a questioning stare.

Without telling them her name, she asked the boy, "Are you John Watson?"

John glanced at Molly and then slowly turned back to the fourteen‒year‒old. "Um, yeah…"

"Okay good." She sighed and gave him the information before John asked to question why she was there. "Professor McGonagall would like to see you in her office." She turned and bolted off without another word. Watson gulped loudly in his throat and exhaled deeply. He felt Molly's hand snake up his back to rest on his shoulder.

"Don't tell me I'm in trouble…" he murmured, and apologized to Molly as he left her at the entrance to the Great Hall for lunch.

John let out a shaky breath outside the professor's office, hand hovering over the door knob. He stopped himself before opening the door and instead knocked politely. There was a muffled, "Come in," from behind the barrier, and John turned the handle to step inside.

Professor McGonagall sat behind her desk wearing plain black robes with a matching witch hat. A basket with some sort of snacks was positioned on the edge of the table, and a lonely chair rested on its legs in front of her desk.

John poked his head around the corner and the teacher stared up at him. "You wanted to see me, Professor?" he asked, making sure he was correct before traveling over to her desk.

"Yes I did, Mr. Watson. Have a seat. Don't worry," she informed him, spotting the worriment on his face, "you've done nothing wrong."

John slowly walked over to her desk and set his bag down on the floor next to the abandoned chair. The chair legs squeaked softly on the polished floor as he sat down in front of the head of his own house.

"Biscuit?" she offered him, pointing to the tray.  _So that's what was mysteriously in the tin._

"Uh, no thanks I'm fine," John stuttered, shaking his hands.

"Alright then." John sank farther back into the chair, waiting for the news to come from her mouth while staring into her hawk‒like eyes. Some of the stuffing was protruding from the pads on the chair's arms, but it was nonetheless still an acceptable level of comfort to sit for a short time.

"John," she began, folding her hands together and bending her elbows so they rested on the table, "tell me; what do you know about Quidditch?" He raised his eyebrows in disorientation, mouth wide open, stuttering.

But all he could think of was the honest truth.  _Not a damn thing._


	11. The Shape-Shifter

** Chapter Eleven **

The Shape-Shifter

* * *

The news that John Watson was joining the Gryffindor Quidditch team spread like wildfire that night in the common room. One spark told to Lestrade and he went insane, running around to kids who were older than him just so he could try to humiliate John with crowds of people and avoid doing his homework. When he went up to bed hours later, he hadn't progressed on his Charms homework at all since he'd become hyper.

John had kept his thrilling news a secret until after dinner, because he knew once the information got out the whole school would be abuzz and groups of people would point at him. When the Gryffindors had History of Magic with the Hufflepuffs next day, Greg forced John to tell Molly the unbelievable news.

"But, a first year hasn't made the team in  _ages!"_  Hooper exclaimed as they exited another boring class with Professor Binns. She slid her homework into her bulging bag and fixed her yellow and black tie. Her ankle‒high brown boots clomped lightly on the floor while they walked; covering her short, white socks. "How does she even know you're such a good flyer anyway?"

"I suppose Madam Hooch has been keeping her informed," John decided, shifting his wand in his robes' inside pocket.

Sherlock didn't seem as impressed as the others had about John joining the team. The lion could tell by his tone when he approached him at breakfast, awkwardly holding out his hand and saying, "Congratulations." Watson didn't need to ask what for, because from all the fame he was so suddenly exposed to he'd gotten used to it. His first Quidditch practice was approaching quickly, and the blond didn't know whether to feel nervous or excited.

There was another buzz of excitement spreading through the first years though, because their Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher had told them that a 'surprise' was waiting for them during their next class. Both Sherlock and John had earned a considerable amount of house points in their lessons from perfecting  _Expelliarmus_ , but Professor Franklin had informed his students that the magic they would practice during their next session was far more advanced.

Less chatter passed between John, Lestrade, and Molly as they preceded towards Hogwarts after morning Herbology classes; probably because the Azkaban creatures lurked all around the grounds, guarding every entrance and hovering over all the students. Every time John went swiftly by one without looking he felt as though he couldn't recall any happy memory he'd ever experienced in his life. All those moments spent talking with Sherlock in the field at home, the times he'd spent hugging his parents, even the fact that Quidditch was soon coming; memories were swept from his mind, and he shuttered thankfully after they'd gone past the foul creatures.

The big, hooded figures with what looked like dead, scabby hands never tried to attack any of the students. They just hovered over the grass, blowing a dreadful cold over the terrified kids and sweeping happy recollections from the world. They seemed to have no feet and their ragged, grey cloaks covered their heads at all times. No one wanted to know what was underneath the cloth.

"I don't think Sherlock's so into them anymore," Lestrade pointed out as they raced into the entrance hall. "I haven't heard him talking about them recently."

"Good thing too," Molly added, hunching over her shoulders to avoid the soul‒sucking monsters. Her hair was done in two French braids, and Greg noticed it made her seem cuter than her usual standards.

"Yeah well, I've seen that obnoxious Moriarty around them a lot," John substituted Sherlock for the Slytherin. "One day he's going to taunt them too far and the whole school will be in deep trouble."

* * *

All too soon, their Tuesday Defense Against the Dark Arts class came from around the corner, and the first year Gryffindors and Ravenclaws made their way up the marble staircase to an anticipated lesson. When Sherlock pushed open the door, a strange yet familiar sight greeted his vision. All the student desks had been completely removed from the room and Professor Franklin's teacher desk had been pushed up to rest directly next to the far wall.  _Clearly a place for practicing spells,_ Sherlock recalled, noting the open area.  _But why the entire classroom?_

About three‒quarters of the way into the room, a locked chest wriggled madly on the floor. It tossed and turned on its own and something inside made loud banging noises. The latch on the front was tightly secured and hence whatever creature inside could not escape.

As usual, Professor Franklin didn't show up until a few minutes before class began, by which time Sherlock had already figured out what was in the locked piece of furniture. He'd racked his brain for minutes on end, pushing Lestrade away as he tried to concentrate and had eventually come up with a decision. The teacher directed them to pile their bags and belongings in the back area of the classroom and informed them they'd only need their wands for protection.

"I suppose you're all wondering what is inside this chest at my feet." He stated the obvious confusion, nodding at the noisy box. "Well, technically first years are not supposed to learn or take on this magic yet, but I thought I'd introduce you to the subject, since the creature just so happened to be lurking in this chest in my office. I figured since you're my best class, you'd be able to handle it quite nicely."

He started to pace around the room with his hands in his pockets, all the while the students occasionally flinching when the chest would let off another loud bang. His voice rang through the room louder than the knocking as he asked the first question. "Does anyone want to venture a guess as to what is inside?"

Sherlock's hand automatically rose into the air not five seconds after he'd finished the question. "Yes, Mr. Holmes?"

Even though he knew he was right, Sherlock said the answer in an unsure tone. "Is it a boggart?"

"Yes, it is Mr. Holmes. And do you know what a boggart looks like, Sherlock?" The teacher thought he'd tricked his student, but Sherlock knew that answer too.

"Well, that depends. Boggarts are shape‒shifters, so they don't stay in one particular form. What the boggart mainly wants is his foe to experience fear, so it takes on the shape of whatever it is you fear most." He finished his sentence with a very proud and smug grin, as he'd just spoken very quickly but crystal clearly.

"Very good, Mr. Holmes! Five points to Ravenclaw. Yes," he said, directing his attention to the entire crowd of eleven‒year‒olds, "A boggart's purpose is to scare the attacker by changing its form. Now, I know none of you want to think of what you fear most, but your boggart will turn into that no matter what. But," he stopped his students' thoughts, raising his finger into the air, "of course there's a way to fight them off." When no one took a wild guess, Professor Franklin gave them the correct answer instead of hinting first. "Laughter."

Sally Donovan, who stood on the opposite side of the room and was nosy about everything, asked the shouting question in their minds. "But Professor, how will laughter stop a boggart?"

"That's a good question, Ms. Donovan. You see, since fear is what you'll be exposed to, the opposite must defeat your enemy. Laughter is the opposite of fear."  _More or less,_ Sherlock hummed. Their teacher continued to rant on. "Now, I want you to all picture the thing you fear most and turn it into something funny. If you don't know what you fear most, well…you'll just have a surprise for you." Several students gulped loudly.

Lestrade was concentrating way too much because he was sort of dancing in place while his mouth twitched, and his eyes were squeezed shut tightly. Sherlock stood with both hands pressed together over his mouth, staring up at the ceiling and not coming up with anything he feared.  _I don't fear anything,_ he came to a conclusion,  _so what will my boggart be?_

John was having the same problem. Hundreds of ferocious animals came to mind, but none that he was scared of or made him even remotely afraid.  _Okay, I'll try something besides animals._ The first thing that came to mind was his family, and the one person who stood out most was his father.  _That's it,_ John found his fear,  _probably my dad being killed in the war or something…_

But now he had to turn his dead father into something funny.  _How's that supposed to work? You can't change your mind so quickly from depressing to happy…_

"We ready now?" Professor Franklin asked, checking that the students were prepared to begin the lesson as he clapped his hands together. "Right," he said, pulling his wand from the inside of his robes. "Before we attempt to finish the boggart and practice, we must learn the spell. Repeat after me.  _Riddikulus_."

Lestrade always had to restrain himself from, oddly enough, giggling every time they prepared to say a spell. When he heard it in his ears, it sounded like demented Latin, and he wasn't surprised if magic originated from the language. Either way, it sounded funny to him. There was a faint mutter that scattered throughout the room, echoing the spell back at the teacher. " _Riddikulus_."

"No no no," the professor shook his head. "It's not pronounced ridiculous. Make sure to accentuate the 'ku' sound, so it sounds like the letter 'Q'. Try again, like this.  _Riddikulus_ ," he spoke, speaking every letter clearly.

" _Riddikulus_ ," the class repeated, the spell mimicking the professor's.

"There we are!" Bob Franklin exclaimed, throwing his hands into the air with over enthusiasm. "Alright, so who would like to try first?"

No one was brave enough to step forward to volunteer. Bob scanned the room, raising his eyebrows, waiting for someone to test out the boggart. "Very well, I'll just have to do this the hard way. Mr. Drave, please come join me." The young, short Ravenclaw who'd been picked went wide‒eyed. He was one of the boys from Sherlock's dorm; Hugo Drave, a remarkably smart student with short, brown hair and matching eyes. Freckles littered his face and he was very shy.

Slowly and cautiously, Hugo made his way through the crowd, pushing past people to reach the front of the classroom. Everyone else secretly backed up against the far wall, making sure they wouldn't be picked next. When he reached Professor Franklin, Drave looked like he might pass out. The teacher stood with his hands behind his back, staring sweetly down upon his student.

"Now, Hugo," he paused to extend the tense moment, "what do you fear most in the entire world?"

Hugo hesitated to expose his fear, but exhaled a deep breath and gave in. "I have a fear of being abused." A couple people in the back of the room held their breath or went into a frozen stance. A few rude kids snickered and thought it was a joke, but the shaky voice Hugo gave off told no lie.

The professor nodded his head in commitment. "I see," he said, rocking back and forth on his feet. "Trouble at home, I bet?" he asked gently, and the boy responded in a way no one knew how he managed it. "Well, I did when I was a lad. But now that my parents are divorced, it never happens anymore. But I still feel it will come back to haunt me someday."

"Well Hugo, just know right here nothing is allowed to happen to you. It is my job, and Dumbledore's, to keep all the students at Hogwarts safe. Now, when I unlock that chest I want you to picture something hilarious that has nothing to do with what you are afraid of. Only focus on laughter. Can you do that?"

"I‒I think so," Charlie stumbled with his words. A girl on John's left placed her hand over her heart, feeling sorry for the boy that had to live with harsh parents at home.

"Alright. Wand at the ready, Hugo. Here we go." Drave retrieved his wand from his robes. "Everyone else be prepared to step forward when your name is called." The sounds of swishing robes were heard as hands plunged into pockets to pull out their sticks of wood.

Professor Franklin waited for the signal from the Ravenclaw to unlock the chest. "Ready," Hugo told him nervously, his hand shaking uncontrollably.

"Alright."  _He's said that like six times already,_ Sherlock noticed. "One…Two…Three…"  _Click_. The latch on the trunk flipped open and the lid flew open. At first, nothing came out of the box, even though it had made so much noise before.

And then gracefully, the top of a man's head appeared from inside the chest. The hair on top of his head was messy black and the parent's huge jaw peered over the wall. His nose was slightly crooked, and he expressed an evil, menacing grin that would cause any child to hide in protection. Hugo took multiple steps backwards, holding his wand in front of him and tripping over his feet. A looped belt was in his father's hand, and the huffing from Hugo's mouth only meant the accessory was going to come into contact with his skin if he didn't do something quickly.

"Now Hugo, now!" The professor was shouting at him. The tall man took powerful and dominant strides, inching closer to his son as a terrible example of a parent. His knuckles were tough from years of building up strength in them, and he smacked the belt in his hands in a haunting way. But before his lifted hand swept down to strike, Hugo's courage built up and he yelled, " _Riddikulus!"_

What was a belt in his hand a moment prior was now a toy wand used to blow bubbles. As his arm lowered, a group of soapy spheres fell onto the wizard's robes, and the son kicked his father so he stumbled backwards. Shouts of laughter rang through the room, and Hugo looked as though he'd just been experienced to music for the first time.

"Well done, Hugo! Five points to Ravenclaw for starting us off so well! Donovan, you're next!" Sally Donovan rolled her eyes but stepped forward, wand held at the ready. Suddenly, there was a loud crack and the boggart shifted into a different shape in a split second. The broken father and bubbles snapped in the air, sprouting a tail and sleek scales.

The poisonous serpent slithered on the floor, larger than Donovan herself, exposing the fangs in her face and flicking its tongue at her. The boggart's mouth opened wide, preparing to strike the opponent. Its tail whipped dangerously, eyes beadily staring at Sally. If she was scared, she surely didn't show it and flicked her wand carelessly, shouting, " _Riddikulus!"_  She was either trying to act cool or tough, but Sherlock totally spotted the fear in her pupils.

Sally Donovan's snake had shriveled and lost its scales. They shrank and faded to brown, becoming flaky as the serpent turned into a tree branch. A Ravenclaw girl went next, and her mummy lost all its bandages and revealed a mannequin underneath. Crack. The boggart changed into various shapes, going wonky and changing freely.

"Ha!" Bob yelled, punching a fist in the air. "Keep going, it's getting confused. Mary Morstan, you next!" Mary's flat blonde hair could be seen bounding to the front of the room, and her doe face shrieked when her boggart forged into a shark. Swimming freely through the air, teeth razor sharp in many rows and blood dripping from the mouth, the shark's focus went directly to the girl and she shook all over. It took a huge effort, but she eventually managed to shout, " _Riddikulus!"_

"Excellent!" the teacher chuckled as Mary's boggart shrank to the size of a squeaky dog toy and the shiny skin became rubber. It fell to the floor lazily and Bob Franklin shouted the next name. "Mr. Lestrade! Your turn!"

Greg's grip on his wand became tighter as Sherlock slapped him on the back. The child shark toy waited on the floor patiently until Lestrade came into view and there was another firing gunshot sound. Most of his fellow students had trouble seeing what his boggart was because it blended so well into the floor. The sharp stinger on the tail was clearly visible and its pincers were as large as lobster claws. Its agile feet made it scamper across the floor and Lestrade circled farther away, keeping a safe distance from the creature.

The scorpion clipped its pincers, waiting to catch Lestrade's robes in them and be able to cut open his skin.  _It is not going to sting me,_ the Gryffindor forced himself to think, jumping over the critter and making it spin around in anger.

" _Riddikulus!"_  Lestrade shouted, thrusting his wand in the air at the scorpion. Its pincers became spoons and its legs were cut off completely. Lestrade's boggart was so funny it made almost everyone in the classroom laugh hysterically and fall over because their ribs hurt so much.

A Ravenclaw girl went, her boggart being a spider. Another Ravenclaw boy went afterwards,  _crack_ , turning the tap dancing spider into a doctor's needle.  _Crack_. The needle became a giant wasp, then a creature even Sherlock didn't know. There were phobias dealing with compacted spaces, failure, death, and many others.

"John Watson!" he heard his name called, and the Gryffindor eagerly stepped up to the front of the room. He planted his feet firmly into the floorboards, waiting for his boggart to make him jump out of his skin. He waited for it to turn into something unexpected, and he could tell all eyes were on him.  _Crack._

"NO!" John yelled, keeling over backwards but returning to his feet abruptly. His free hand flew to cover his mouth, and several girls in the back corner of the classroom gasped in shock. His wand shook violently in his left hand.  _No, it's not possible. It's not true, please tell me it's not happening…_

A limp body was sprawled on the floor, blood pouring from deep gashes and wounds, and Lestrade stared at who it was. His head whipped around, flying to the Ravenclaw who stood four feet from him, an unbelievable expression on his face. There was not a family member lying on the floor, but a twin version of John's best friend instead.

Sherlock's hair was as curly as ever, but his white buttoned shirt had huge blotches of stained blood on it and his bright green eyes stared off into nothing. Broken wand a few centimeters from his dominant hand, his cheekbones were a ghostly white color. The terror struck Watson worse than it would have been if it was a family member, which didn't make any sense to him at all.

The real Sherlock stood in shock and was aware that most of the first years in the room were focused on him, not the dead version of him at John's feet. He wanted to shout to Watson that it wasn't going to happen any time soon and that it wasn't real, but he just couldn't bring himself to do it. Professor Franklin did it for him.

"Come on, John! It's not real, you can do it!" The lion slowly lowered his hand from his face, facing his fear and getting to his feet. Then, with a small sniff from his nose, the blond said, " _Riddikulus!"_  John's eyes didn't have time to refocus on what his boggart had turned into, because the next second he felt arms pulling him to his feet, sliding him across the floor.

Professor Franklin continued to call names, and loud cracks echoed all over the room, bouncing off the walls. John's worst nightmare was locked inside his head, and someone was trying to shake him. The attention had returned to the front of the room, and soon Sherlock's blurry face came into view through stinging tears.

"John," he whispered, shaking him lightly, green eyes alive and functioning properly. "It's okay. I'm fine." John sat on the floor, knees bent into his chest. "I‒I can't," he tried to spit out but stuttered instead, and he allowed Holmes to enwrap him in a hug and forget his mixed‒up words. Mouth still agape while trembling, John pulled his friend in close and felt Sherlock's hand weave through his sandy hair.

The two boys helped John get back to his feet and stroked the water droplets from his face, by which time the last student was finishing off the boggart and Professor Franklin was forcing it back into the chest. A few others had been affected so severely they had to be treated like John as well, and that only mean it would take longer for them to get over their fears. The lid to the chest snapped shut with a loud bang, making the students jump. When the latch was secure again, a loud cheer spread through the room.

"Well," Professor Franklin huffed, after the noise had died down, "I'm glad you enjoyed the lesson so much. Maybe if we have time later in the year we can attempt to finish off another one. That's it for now. Off to your next class you go!"

* * *

He was walking alone, Ravenclaw tie lounged over his shoulders, robes flowing behind him. Sherlock Holmes, unsociable, was taking a walk. It had been a few days since John's mind had knocked him up about the boggart, and every now and then he'd shutter at the thought of his dead friend on the wooden floor. Sherlock had a hard time comforting John about the impossible manner, and decided it was best to stay out of it. But it was just another thing on the Gryffindor's mind he shouldn't have had to deal with.

Not a soul was around but himself, strolling leisurely on the seventh floor. It was the weekend so everyone was busy finishing homework in their common rooms. But Sherlock had already finished his homework. The only thing he hadn't done was his Astronomy chart of the solar system, and he simply refused to until the last minute.

 _I'm so foolish to ask John for help,_ he scolded himself as he sat in the library and wrote a short note to Watson on Saturday. It read:

_John,_

_I don't understand why, but I'm having trouble with my Astronomy homework. It's a chart of the solar system and where all the planets are and things. Would you mind helping me tomorrow at one o'clock in the library? Usual spot?_

_Thanks._

_-Sherlock Holmes_

John had laughed when he sat down with Sherlock at lunch a few hours earlier and told him he could have just asked him in public. But Sherlock would have felt humiliated and had sent his owl Elizer to John in his common room as a replacement, and the younger boy had sent a quick reply anyway with his scribbled initials at the end.

_Sure. Don't mind helping._

_-JW_

What was even more embarrassing was the fact that Sherlock didn't know the basics of the solar system. When John had commented about it while they ate, he said something about the earth going around the sun and Sherlock had responded that it 'wasn't important.' John looked at him like he was cross‒eyed. Instead of storing the useless fact, the clever child had 'deleted it' in order to pack more important facts into his brain.

But Sherlock Holmes didn't want to think about the solar system at that moment. He wanted to clear his mind; to just take a simple walk, which wasn't so simple for him.

As he passed down a deserted corridor, he found nothing anywhere. All the paintings but one had been removed from the walls and the hallway was the same color of stone. Not caring, he continued to stroll down the corridor, whistling to himself.

He stopped a few feet after passing a blank wall to his right. He thought he'd heard a creaking noise, but when he rotated around to see if anyone was following him no one was there. He continued in his path, but seconds later he heard the strange grinding noise again.

As opposed to a person standing behind him, a mysterious door had appeared on the wall he'd just passed. He glanced once or twice up and down the corridor, thinking how the door could possibly have shown up.  _Wow, magic,_ he remarked, smacking himself over the head in punishment for his stupidity. He checked behind the pillars sticking out from the wall, but again no one was there.

Curious, Sherlock's steps began taking him towards the door. He was always one to snoop around Mycroft's room at home, so why couldn't he do it at Hogwarts? His eyebrows bent down, almost touching each other as his arm floated up in front of his chest.

His long fingers pushed the wooden door open. A sight met his eyes he never expected to see.

* * *

"Which one's that?" A tall, handsome boy by the name of Anthony Greyskir stared down at his new Seeker. Being the Keeper and the oldest, he was also captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Tony had short, black hair almost identically cut to John's, but his brown eyes were so dark they were almost black. He was also at least a head taller in height. The sixteen‒year‒old was pointing to different colored sports balls in a supply chest. His finger stopped over the bright red one.

"That's the Quaffle," John recalled, remembering the name of the ball from a book he'd read and the information Sherlock had told him about Quidditch. "And those are the Bludgers," he said before Greyskir could ask the next question.

"Very good!" Five other athletes stood surrounding the trunk, two holding Beaters' bats with brooms at their feet. The entire Gryffindor Quidditch team had changed into scarlet playing robes with pads and protectors for their arms and legs to match. John remembered their last names in his head, going from the Chasers to himself last as his eyes skimmed the row.  _McKorrick, Monts, Dagmarc, Sherman, O'Brien, Greyskir, and Watson._ He attempted to remember their first names as well.  _Finn, Kelsey, Heather, Riley, Chad, Anthony, John._

"Now, this is all I want you to care about," Tony told him, bending down to unravel a secret compartment in the chest. He pulled open the two halves of the Hogwarts school crest, and a tiny golden ball fell from the dent in the leather. John knew what this ball was and how special and significant it would be to him.

"The Golden Snitch," the Keeper said, rolling the walnut‒sized ball into John's palm. The first year's mouth was open in awe, and his fingers ran over the precise details and engravings in the object. "You see, catching the Snitch will earn us an extra hundred and fifty points, most likely causing us to win," Greyskir told the youngest player, a grin spreading on his face.

"It's a very interesting ball," Watson remarked, still gazing at the tiny marks and dots sticking out of its surface.

"Ha, well, you won't be saying that later," the older wizard informed him. "Imagine trying to catch this in a raging thunderstorm, with rain pouring down everywhere, and where you can barely see ten feet in front of you."

"Well, why isn't it flying now?" John asked, but his wonder was answered immediately. The tiny golden ball spread elegant silver wings, and the questioner had to grab it tightly to prevent the Snitch from escaping out of his fingertips.

"That's what we're going to practice today," Anthony explained, taking the Snitch from John's hand. "Since you're the first eleven‒year‒old to play on a Quidditch team for a while, all we're going to do is get you prepared. To do this, I'm just going to have you go after the Snitch and catch it a few times whenever we come together to practice. Once you get the hang of it, I'll try to have you catch it while we're flying around you. Oh, and be sure you have a firm grip, otherwise this sucker can get out of reach."

"Yeah, I can see that," John said, raising his eyebrows in a 'no kidding' kind of way.

"Now, I know you don't own your own broomstick, so you'll probably have to use a school one until you're old enough to have your own. But no worries; I've managed to confiscate the fastest broom the school has, so you can practice with speed and agility. So, what do you say we give it a go, John?"

Watson glanced at his teammates for support, and the two girl Chasers nodded encouragingly. "Why not," he smiled, turning back to the Gryffindor Keeper. He approached the school broom, shouted "Up!", and mounted his riding vehicle firmly.

"Good luck," Anthony told him, and he released the Snitch from his fingers. The tiny ball was visible in the sky near John for a split second, then it vanished as though it had been carried off by the wind easily.

John lurched the handle of his broom upwards, thrusting his head backwards. He circled the Quidditch pitch twice, using his catlike vision to try and make out the speck of gold. To his surprise, a small crowd of people had already crowded near one of the Gryffindor fan benches, waiting to cheer him on in their first match against Slytherin and see how remarkable he truly was.


	12. Rivalries

** Chapter Twelve **

Rivalries

* * *

"Eat."

It wasn't John who was forcing the stubborn Ravenclaw to eat, but the other way around. Sherlock sat on the bench to the Gryffindor house table, bent over and trying to stare into the shorter boy's blue eyes. It was the morning of the first Quidditch match of the season, and the Gryffindor Seeker was refusing to touch his food. The younger boy didn't stir, and he stared at his breakfast glumly. He knew he was hungry because his stomach grumbled, but he lied to Sherlock anyway.

"I'm not hungry."

"Yes you are," Sherlock argued. "You always eat at every meal whether you're hungry or not. So eat something." John's frown deepened and Lestrade joined in on the advice.

"Yeah. Come on, John. You need the energy for flying." He chewed a piece of his omelet and pointed to Watson's own food. "It's the rivalry game of the year. You better beat those Slytherins' butts, cause they deserve to be put down with their attitudes. I can't wait to see the look on Moriarty's face after your catch the Snitch."

Sherlock chuckled.  _Same here,_ he thought. "Do you know who the Slytherin Seeker is, John?"

"N‒No," the lion admitted. "I haven't seen them practicing. I guess I'll just have to find out," he said, shrugging his shoulders.

"John!" A rough hand slapped his across his back, almost causing him to knock out a tooth. He braced himself with his hands on the table, and when he swiveled around in his chair he found Anthony Greyskir standing over him. The captain looked as cheerful as ever, and John greeted him with a brisk smile. His mouth tugged gingerly into a grin, and Tony could tell his newest player was nervous.

"Ready for the opening game today?" he asked, even though Tony knew John wouldn't respond as cheerfully.

"Yeah, sure…" There was no enthusiasm in the blond's voice. "Just, nervous I guess…"

"Oh, don't worry," Tony assured him, giving him another violent slap on his shoulder. "We all were on our first day. We'll beat those Slytherins, you'll see." With a hinting wink, he strolled down the table to eat with his fellow classmates, some of which were members of their Quidditch team.

A silence followed the older boy's departure and Lestrade looked nervously at Sherlock, who was no help whatsoever. "You figure out that Herbology homework yet, Lestrade?" John asked, undoubtedly trying to change the subject.

"No," he admitted. "I haven't touched it since Thursday. Thought I'd put it off until after the match." His sentence was hard to make out while he chewed on a bagel.

"Sorry, what?" John asked, leaning closer to him and cuffing a hand over his ear. Lestrade repeated his answer after swallowing and his housemate nodded, understanding.

Molly noticed that both house sports teams were rising from their benches, so John unwillingly stood to join them. "Come with me," he whispered, grabbing Sherlock on the wrist and dragging him out of the hall.

"See you at the match," Sherlock indicated to Lestrade and Molly, who both sat with questioning looks on their faces.

One by one, students and teachers began to file out of the school's open front doors to head down to the Quidditch pitch. Holmes kept looking over his shoulder to estimate how many followed them, but he eventually lost count. He unexpectedly nudged John on his elbow, and his friend turned sulkily to see what he wanted.

"Here."

Randomly, Sherlock slid a piece of toast into John's relaxed hand. The athlete couldn't help but take it so it gave him some comfort and energy. "Thanks," he mumbled, biting into the savoring bread. The yellow butter melted on his tongue and the crust was crunchy against his teeth. Jumping, John felt Sherlock's hand weave across his shoulder blades and rest on the opposite side of his torso. The taller boy pulled him in closer, and Watson stared at the grass as the Ravenclaw eagle squeezed him.

"Don't worry," Sherlock comforted him, adjusting the collar of John's white shirt as they stood outside the team's changing tent. "I know you'll be fantastic."

There was a squeeze on his wrist for good luck.

* * *

"Ready, John?" Greyskir asked him for the millionth time since they'd changed into their red and gold Quidditch robes. John didn't answer. He stood staring at the wood wall in front of him that supposedly opened, behind where the entire school sat waiting hidden by the barrier for the teams to fight it out for the win.

John's stomach lurched and his hand flew automatically to help settle it.  _Good thing I didn't eat,_  he told himself, feeling sick rather suddenly. He forced himself to answer Tony's question flatly.

"No."

Too late. The gate blocking the outside world from view lifted to send a blinding sunshine into their eyes.  _Well, at least there's perfect weather,_ John thought optimistically, noting that there weren't any clouds in the sky; yet to go along with the autumn day an early October breeze would cool them off as the game went on. All seven teammates stood in pairs with one uneven player in the back of the group carrying their brooms and for the Beaters, clubs.

As the gates at both ends of the pitch lifted painfully, John's ears rang with a blasting roar from the stands. From the limited vision he could see, most of the students were on their feet, cheering and waving banners of the house colors. The captain bowed his head to duck under the ceiling, and he led the other six teenagers out to the center of the field as the head player.

John followed Tony out across the field, passing over white lines painted in their proper spots. The three hoops at either end of the pitch towered over the students, and the familiar benches from practice were filled to the last seat. The professor who taught flying lessons stood in the middle of the white circle as both Quidditch teams approached. You could already tell the teams despised each other by the sneers being exchanged from opposite ends of the field.

All fourteen players stood positioned around the outside of the circle, with the fifteenth body of Madam Hooch being the point in the center. A shaking trunk was at her feet, and her black and white striped robes flowed behind her. Students longed to see clearer, and the teachers had reserved seats up higher in the stadium so they received the best view of the games.

"Before we begin," she indicated towards the players, nodding her head and glaring at them all dangerously, "I want a clean game. There's to be no breaking the rules; I will not tolerate it. Captains," she said, turning to face the oldest members on both teams, "shake hands."

Anthony and the Slytherin captain came forward, and more had a knuckle‒breaking fight than an exchange of handshakes. Both of them crushed with all their might on their opponent's hand, trying not to show that they were struggling to show pain as well. They returned to stand with their teams soon after, and John saw Tony fling off the tingling in his cherry red hand beneath his robes.

"Mount your brooms," Madam Hooch announced. John flung one leg over his broom, gripping the handle tightly. Before being told to kick off the ground, he scanned the mischievous faces of the Slytherin team. He stopped at the person across from him, clearly assigned the same position. She was the only girl on the team. Hair pulled back completely off her face, lipstick the shade of blood red, eye makeup enhancing her lashes; she stared at Watson with demon eyes.

John blinked twice and probably needed a slap across the face to make sure it was true. He wasn't the only first year who was playing on a house team. But no one had mentioned this Slytherin girl. She played the exact same position as him, yet there was no news about it flowing through the school's halls, thus it was kept a secret.

Slytherin's Seeker was Irene Adler, the one person he  _never_ expected to be participating in a sporting event.

The fourteen players kicked off the ground, and John felt a swift breeze against his cheeks. Madam Hooch below on the ground unhooked the latch on the trunk, letting the Quidditch balls be release freely. Two black Bludgers busted from their binding chains, flying into the air and circling violently around the field. Then, pulling back the two halves of the Hogwarts crest, the tiny golden ball was seen in the palm of Madam Hooch's hand for a split second, then it flew off and vanished into the cloudless sky.

"And the players are lined up to begin the first match of the season. Madam Hooch is preparing to grab the Quaffle." A voice was ringing around the stadium through speakers, and the same full‒of‒herself tone echoed in Watson's ears. He scanned the crowd roughly, looking for the tan face.

And there she was. Among a group of teachers on a black and white stands post, Sally Donovan's job was to entertain the crowd as the announcer.  _Great, I can hear her loud mouth over speakers,_ John rolled his eyes. Tension rose between the rivals as the Chasers gathered to ignite the game and Beaters grasped their bats tightly. Madam Hooch bent down to grab the Quaffle, and the crowd held their breath as she threw it powerfully into the air.

"And the game has begun!" Sally's voice boomed out to the stadium, and an explosion of cheers rang out again. John zoomed up high above the crowd, launching his broom towards the sky and rocketing upwards. Spinning, he followed the directions that Anthony had told him; stay out of the way of the Chasers, but keep your eyes peeled for the Snitch.

John was aware that Irene was spying on him, or perhaps even tailgating him. She was a good twenty feet below him, yet she occasionally glanced up to see if he had dashed away.

"And Slytherin scores. Ten zero to the emerald and silver." John grumbled as a loud roar came from the green end of the pitch while the three other houses booed disapprovingly. Going back to his job, he scanned the entire stadium, aware that a tiny gold ball fluttered in the air somewhere. Even with his almost perfect vision, it was extremely difficult to find the Snitch in perfect weather. He'd had trouble catching it during some practices, since sometimes it tended to hide behind the stands or the goal posts. It was also more difficult with the hundreds of students waving distracting flags and wearing brightly colored scarves that made him go insane.

"And Gryffindor answers!" The scoreboard changed, and they'd tied it at ten apiece.

"Come on, John!" the first year heard Tony shout from near his defending goalposts. "Find the Snitch and end this game quickly!" He had to fling himself five feet to block Slytherin's close shot, and Watson gave him a thumbs up, muttering to himself as he searched for the gold speck.

"Oh, that was an awfully close shot by Howard. And now it's Finn McKorrick with the Quaffle, followed closely by his teammate Heather Dagmarc. She's speeding forwards now…Ouch, that was a rough hit by Frankshore. Hope Heather is okay…"

"Donovan…" A familiar stern voice came onto the speakers, and the Gryffindor Seeker recognized it as Professor McGonagall's. "Don't take sides, even if your own team is playing."

"Sorry, Professor," she said, annoyance still in her tone. John tried to drown out Sally's voice, but every now and then she'd invade his head again. Still the Snitch was nowhere in sight, and Irene still stayed on his tail aggravatingly.

* * *

"What's he doing?" Lestrade was adjusting the zoom on a pair of binoculars, focusing on John's figure high in the sky. Molly stood by his side, her black and yellow scarf tied loosely around her neck. She elbowed him in the ribs, causing him to flinch and knock his forehead into the edge of the magnifying tool.

"What do you think he's doing?" she asked, pointing back at their friend. His scarlet Quidditch robes fluttered in the wind, and a small corner of his leg protectors were visible above his sports cleats. "He's trying to search for the Snitch. You can't expect him to find it so easily." She bent her fingers, asking for the Gryffindor to pass her the magnifier.

Molly jumped up in fright as a body grazed against her back, and the brunette who was taller than her stepped into view. He joined them on the bench among the scarlet and gold supporters, wearing a long black coat. The collar came up to cover his neck, and his cheekbones bulged behind his skin as he smiled.

"Sherlock!" Molly screeched, lowering the binoculars and spotting his Ravenclaw tie beneath the buttons on his coat. "I thought you claimed earlier that you were going to finish your homework."

"Change of plans," he said, burying his hands in his pockets and twisting his rib cage. "Couldn't skip the first Quidditch match of the season…" His voice sounded as though he hadn't finished his sentence, like he wanted to comment more but didn't. He pursed his lips together, squeezing them tight and focused his attention on the game. His eyes flew directly to John, but the younger Gryffindor was paying no attention to the crowd and continued to scoot around the stadium.

Suddenly, a glint of gold flickered in John's peripheral vision, and he spotted the Snitch hovering a few feet above the ground on the opposite side of the field. Not hesitating, he flattened himself against the handle of the school's broom, forcing the vehicle to imply its full speed. Irene wasn't foolish to take it as a joke, so she bolted right after him. The Slytherin Seeker was a good fifteen feet behind his trail as he took off, but he couldn't waste any precious seconds in the battle.

Before Watson could come within ten yards of the Snitch however, the tiny ball had darted away and out of sight. He jerked the handle up in a flinging motion so he avoided smash into the earth, and Irene pulled swiftly out of the air to look like she hadn't followed him from the start.

"And nothing happens after all," came Sally's voice over the speaker, depressed that the Snitch had slipped away.

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock muttered under his breath through gritted teeth. He stood slouching while sitting into his left hip, staring over Hooper's shoulder to observe the players zooming by. Lestrade and Molly both cheered loudly as the lions scored a few more goals, but one of the Chasers had the wind knocked out of her. Kelsey Monts, the fourth year Chaser was hit with a blow of a Bludger as one of the Slytherin players whammed his bat with all his strength.

A penalty shot was given to Gryffindor, but Finn missed by a mile because he was so frustrated. John heard Anthony shout a load of nasty swear words from his mouth, and Madam Hooch had to warn him about his language. Slytherin scored two more hoops not long after the missed shot, so the red team was only ahead by twenty points.

"Do you mind staying off my tail?" John bellowed, giving the serpent Seeker a sneer after the commotion calmed down and the game had resumed. Irene didn't answer him; she simply returned his rude comment with an attempting encouraging smile and an inappropriate gesture, something far too old for such a young student to be performing. But the asker didn't fall for her begging reply. She flew off to stop directly across from him, making the blond even more pissed off as she kept a watchful eye on him.

"I see it!" Lestrade's cry startled both Sherlock and Molly as the exuberant boy squinted harder to get a better view. "The Snitch! It's beyond the stands over there!" He pointed over the heads of a few second years, and Sherlock saw it quicker than Molly did. Just beyond the far Slytherin goalpost, the tiny ball fluttered its wings madly and bounced in the light breeze of air. Holmes wanted to shout to John where it was, but there were two problems; one, John probably wouldn't hear him over the roar of the students, and two, even though Sherlock didn't care, it would be cheating.

It didn't matter. The blond Quidditch player had spotted the Snitch and dove once more at one of the uprights supporting the stands. Irene being closer saw it after John had but had a slight lead on his broom. Neck in neck, red and green robes intertwining, they sped towards the fans with great speed while the other half of the stadium hunched back in fear.

John tried to shove Irene off her broom, even though he knew it was rude to punch a girl. She had her hands on the handle of his broom and looked up just in time to watch the Snitch get away. Watson was trying to knock Irene off course now, and he sped faster and faster at the upright.

Time flew by incredible quickly and the upright soon towered over him as it dominated his vision. The green team member used her force to push off John's leg protectors, removing her from harm's way yet shoving her enemy deeper into danger. He collided roughly as the barrier came in contact with John's chest before he could control his broom to fly away. He smashed his head full on into the wood, causing his brain to go fuzzy and his vision went blurry. When he slammed into the pole, his broom gave way under him a few feet and he scraped the entire inside of his arm.

Some of John's skin shredded off with his torn sleeve, which floated down to the ground leisurely. Around where the scrape was forming the irritated skin turned bright pink. John heard some cries of worry from the crowd as he rebounded off the upright and stopped a few meters away.

He gritted his teeth in excruciating pain as his brain functioned properly again. He cradled his bad arm into his lap, adjusting his stance on his broom so he could sit comfortably. Water was beginning to boil in his eyes, and he bent over in a contracted position with his spine to avoid the attention from the crowd and as a result of the pulsing feeling around his bone. John's sleeve was completely torn and some loose threads hung down from his wrist. He applied pressure to his arm even though it seared with pain, and it shot through his entire arm when his hand came in contact with the skin tissues. Every time he flexed his muscles, the damaged skin popped out in a clump and twisted in a nasty and not normal way.

John was suddenly aware of the noise of liquid dripping nearby. He checked the barrier to make sure he hadn't splatter blood everywhere, and he whipped around to search for Irene. She'd come out of the fight unscathed.

Turns out the dripping noise was coming from his own body. John had been given a bloody nose when his head bashed against the stands, and he felt the hot liquid pouring from his nostrils. It soon clotted up and he couldn't breathe through it, so he inhaled and exhaled deeply through his mouth.

"How…" John whispered to himself, wondering how his uniform guard could've slipped to reveal his arm to the splintered wood. His voice was funny with his clogged nose, and he had a twang in his tone because of the lack of air flowing through his nostrils. His British accent almost seemed cut off from his limited speaking abilities. He ignored the question boiling in his mind and somehow managed to steer his broom without gripping the handle. He hovered in the air, left hand squeezing his right arm, lifting his head to find the stadium staring at him. He soon had to stop again and lie flat against his broom handle because the pain was too much to bear.

Molly's hand had flown to grab handfuls of her ginger ponytail, and Lestrade's was on the edge of his hairline. When the lone Hufflepuff turned to see Sherlock's expression, he wasn't there. He'd worked his way through the crowd without the two friends noticing.

Now John almost felt embarrassed. A single tear slid down his cheek, showing his emotions and how he was reacting to his injury. His face remained scrunched up, and his back heaved up and down as he took shaky inhales through his teeth.

"John!" Someone was yelling his name, but he didn't glance up to check who. Whoever it was, the voice came from slightly behind his right shoulder. It wasn't even a frightful shout; it was just to grab his attention.

There were the faint words of Anthony Greyskir saying, "Timeout," to Madam Hooch, and a whistle blew to halt the play of the game. A rush of wind fluttered John's Quidditch robes as the captain came to stop at his side. "John! Are you okay?" He was rushing his sentence and it slurred into one word.

"No!" the younger boy replied, more in an angry tone than in the sound of struggle.

"Come down to the ground." Tony's hand grabbed the front of the school broom and directed it down to earth, allowing the Seeker to hop off the vehicle and stand in the grass. His cleats sunk into the dirt and the studs left an imprint after he'd left.

Too many voices were asking the same thing; if he was fine. Finally, the Gryffindor captain pitched in and told his players to give Watson some air. "Get him a bandage, quickly!" he roared, and a figure in scarlet sprinted off to the locker room for a clean wrap.

Another sharp seer went through his veins as one of the Beaters Sherman began to protect his bruised arm a few minutes later, wrapping the bandage around so tightly it basically cut off his circulation. The rough hands from holding a bat weren't helping with the patching. "Geez, take it easy!" John shot at him, trying to speak through glued gums. A red splotch flowed through the thick fabric as the wound had opened even more, and the wrap wasn't doing much to cease the bleeding.

"There," Riley said, stepping back to show what a messy job he'd done.

Anthony gathered up his players in a huddle. "That'll have to do for the remainder of the match. Come on team; let's finish this thing as soon as possible!" The Slytherin team was laughing at their beat up Chaser and Seeker, but that didn't get the lions' hopes up. The seven players gathered in a circle and clapped hands, preparing to return to the sporting event.

John leisurely worked his way back into the game. An hour at least had gone by since the match had started, and twice the Seekers had fought to claim the Snitch for their team. Irene seemed to be hiding now. She was nowhere in sight, and the players continued on as though a timeout never was demanded. The Slytherin team had assembled on their brooms in the air a lot faster than the lions had, rudely tapping on their thighs and waiting for the opposing team to return and finish the game.

John had to swerve his body in order to avoid a rocketing Bludger, which missed his leg by a foot. Grabbing the broom handle with his good arm, he let his injured arm rest on his leg undisturbed. The side effects of his collision were already weaving in to distract him. He could tell his face was being drained of color and becoming pale, while he felt dizzy and sweat dripped in his blond locks.

Something emerald flew past him in a flash, and Watson realized it was the back of Adler's robes. She'd seen the Snitch for the third time, flying over the painted white line surrounding the circle in the center of the field. John flew after her, launching himself onto his ride and urging it to decline faster. "Come on. Come on!" he panted, his bad arm digging into his hip as he was getting terribly woozy from the speed. She was losing her advantage and he was gaining, not too far from the tail of her broom. His face became level with her knees, and she glanced over her shoulder as she heard him coming. Her face molded into an appalled frown, and the wounded boy seized the opportunity to get back at her for what she'd done.

His foot connected with her knee, and gently but with enough force he shoved her whole body a few feet away, just out of reach of the Snitch. She lost control and cursed under her breath. John sped up and flattened his chest to the handle, noting that the Snitch was a short distance away. Its wings were losing power and being drained of stamina, and with a tremendous effort and extension of his elbow, John felt his fingers wrap around the fluttering ball.

The Snitch's wings were beating against his closed knuckle, trying to escape and elongate the game. But as John was told thousands of times in practices,  _make sure to have a firm grip._

"Uh oh…" He wasn't slowing down and the ground was rising up to meet him quickly. Before smashing into the grass he flung himself off the broom, doing a somersault in mid air and rolling repeatedly through the field. With each topple his scrape let off another sharp pain, and he gathered his strength to lengthen his non‒bandaged arm out and stop his body from continuing on in a frightening position.

He'd knocked his skull on a hard surface once more, and his vision went blurry for the second time. Arm throbbing, he held the tiny golden ball in his clenched hand, and a small crowd of people was rushing over to where he lay sprawled on the ground. A faint obnoxious voice was bellowing over the speakers, saying something about the result of the match.

The colors around John in his vision melted together and all he could see was darkness. Before he completely blacked out, he saw a tall, lean figure with perfect curls kneel by his side. The slap on the face from the Ravenclaw wasn't enough though, and the Golden Snitch escaped John's weakened grasp as his eyes closed and he was isolated from reality. In fact, the hit from Sherlock's fingers had just led him to fall asleep, taking the memory of his first unlucky Quidditch match conclusion with him as his heart pumped and pounded. The world around him became silent and steady, and the faint screams reduced in his ringing, right ear.


	13. Sherlock's Promise

** Chapter Thirteen **

Sherlock's Promise

* * *

John was sitting up in the comfy hospital wing bed doing his Herbology homework Lestrade had dropped off for him when a loud bang came from behind the window. It startled him so much his parchment went flying into the air and landed on the floor, floating down like a feather. He squeezed his arm wrapped in bandages, winching at the pain and stood up to blow his nose. Over the past few days the blood would pour from his unexpectedly, and he had to sit clamping a pearl‒white tissue to his nostrils.

The results of the Quidditch match against Slytherin were a success for John, even after he had blacked out. Since the Snitch had escaped from his weak grasp, Madam Hooch demanded for Irene to fetch it. Both teams had exited their locker rooms by the time the golden ball was caught again, and Irene was seen stomping back towards the castle, furious.

Gryffindor had won their first match 240 to 180. If John hadn't caught the Snitch, Slytherin would have beaten them.  _Nice way to conclude a first match John,_ Watson told himself after he woke a few hours later.

The Gryffindor was secretly relieved that he was going to be released from the hospital the next day and resume classes. The smell of fresh flowers on every bedside table was beginning to make him nauseous, and the scent was overbearing. Sometimes he woke up in the middle of the night, covering his face with the blanket and burying his head into the bulging pillow to prevent himself from passing out again over some stupid bouquets of roses.

The patient placed both his hands on the outside edge of the window frame, scanning in all directions for a sign of something that had knocked against the glass. His question was answered when a brown great‒horned owl flew up to come face to face with him, its eyes staring intensely at him and a letter clutched in its beak. A familiar blue and gold box was tied to its leg. Without hesitation, John pushed the window open a few inches to let Elizer slip inside.

There was no other explanation as to who the letter would be from, unless it was Lestrade who'd borrowed Sherlock's owl.  _I suppose it could be from Molly,_ John thought, assuming her cat Tasha couldn't deliver messages for her.

Elizer clipped John's finger roughly. "Ouch!" the boy shouted, looking down at the animal. "What was that for?" Elizer turned his head around completely from his body and sat perched on the edge of the windowsill, just a poof of a bird.

Not a single letter or number was written gracefully on the outside of the note, and Watson looked confused as he pulled off the string binding it together. The parchment was folded in the strangest way he'd ever seen, but when it was totally unraveled, John knew whose handwriting was scripted across the page crystal clearly. He flopped back onto the bed to read Sherlock's short note.

_Here's a little treat for you. Don't let it hop away this time…_

_I'm coming up to see you today at 5:30. I don't care what you say._

_Hope you're doing well._

_-SH_

John smiled when he read Sherlock's initials, and turning back to Elizer untied the Chocolate Frog box from the owl's leg. Without opening the lid all the way, Watson reached his skinny fingers into the container and pulled out the treat, biting its head off quickly so it stopped squirming. The chocolate was sweet on his tongue and crunched between his teeth.

Remembering his first train ride to Hogwarts only a month and a half earlier, the eleven‒year‒old took the dazzling card out from the bottom of its case. He smirked as he knew the name of the professor on the card already, and so it was that Albus Dumbledore would be joining his card collection.

"What are you looking at?" he asked Elizer saucily, who stared down at him with what looked like dark eyebrows around his irises. The owl looked very angry indeed, so Watson clipped off a piece of chocolate and threw it onto the table, which Elizer ate joyfully.

John sucked on his finger that Sherlock's pet had nicked him on.  _God, too much blood draining from me this week,_ the Gryffindor mumbled.  _First my nose, then my arm, now this. Life's full of surprises. And sometimes, unfortunately, life sucks._

* * *

John got an unexpected visit from Lestrade later in the day, in which he successfully levitated the patient's tissue box off the table with his wand. The shorter lion chuckled and gave Greg a grin. "Finally managed to cast the spell did you?" The questioner got a 'shut up' look shot back at him for the comment.

"How's Potions?" Watson asked, connecting his fist with his shoulder and rubbing his stinging arm delicately.

"Rubbish," Lestrade admitted, and John laughed. "I got partnered with Moriarty the other day. He complained I wasn't doing anything correctly when I was the one doing all the bloody work. All he did was insult me."

"So just punch him," John suggested, peeling back the paper bandage gently and feeling the hairs on his arm pull on his skin. "I almost did."

"Do you know how much trouble I'd get into? Professor Snape would kill me! Especially with that death stare…He's bad enough as a teacher, I bloody well do not want to get on his bad side —"

"Okay! Okay…" John smiled to himself and indicated in his tone for Lestrade to calm down. He regretted pulling the bandages back and hastily wrapped them back around his injury. The skin was a bubblegum pink color and small patches of new, ghostly white cells were mending over his muscles. There was a lovely black and purple bruise forming near his wrist bone, so he did his best to avoid sleeping on it during the hours of the night.

John gulped down a sip from the glass of water on his bedside table and took another bite of his Chocolate Frog. "Hey, you mind taking this down to Professor Sprout later today?" he asked, blowing one last time on his homework to check that the ink was dry. Lestrade held out his arm, taking the short essay on Dittany in his grip, a useful plant used in healing wounds.

"No, it's not a problem. I'll take it down to the greenhouses. How do you write so neatly? Yours is definitely more thorough in detail than mine…" The blond‒haired boy shrugged his shoulders.

"I've got skill," the eleven‒year‒old remarked, knowing it was a dumb response. "I'm left‒handed. You have it easy. I have to make sure I don't smudge it every time…"

* * *

The Gryffindor Seeker soon got bored sitting on the bouncy mattress doing nothing, so he cuddled on top of the covers with one of his favorite Muggle books from the outside world. He extracted the TARDIS bookmark from the depths of the pages and set the  _Doctor Who_  marker on the table.

 _The Hobbit_ , by J.R.R. Tolkien was always one of John's favorite books to entertain himself and grow up reading when he was a kid. His mum had first read it to him when he was a young boy, maybe seven years of age. He'd always catch himself tracing the mountains and rivers on the earth‒like colored cover before opening its pages and smelling the fresh scent of a good book. Whenever he bent the spine, he felt himself traveling alongside Bilbo Baggins on his journey to the Lonely Mountain.

He was interrupted a few minutes later by voices shouting outside in the hallway. From the sounds of it, Professor Snape and McGonagall were having a vicious fight about, from the snippets John heard, the dementors of Azkaban.

"Severus," Professor McGonagall's rigorous voice rang out, "a student was almost attacked today! Surely you can believe these dreadful creatures must remain here?"

"It is the only way the school will remain protected against the Death Eaters!" Snape sounded like he would blow up any second.  _Death Eaters?_ John could hear their roaring voices outside in the corridor; the door at the end of the hospital wing was wide open. Madam Pomfrey, the only nurse in the school, muttered some words and came out from her office at the end of the ward.

"What are they bickering about!" she shouted, crossing straight through the room without glancing once at Watson's bed. She grabbed the door and closed it behind her, but the lock didn't click so it swung back open a few more inches. John opened his ears, knowing it was rude to eavesdrop but did so anyway.

"Would you mind!" The nurse's voice was muffled behind the large, curved doors. "I have patients who need care! Take your conversation somewhere else!"

"Poppy, this is a matter of importance!" Snape bellowed again, and John could identify the distaste that was always in his tone. "The school is —" The professor was cut off as a pair of light footsteps were heard coming up the marble staircase outside.

"Holmes!"

Snape snarled, and John gripped the bed sheets in fury.  _If he insults Sherlock…_ All the teachers outside the door must have froze, staring intently at the younger Holmes brother; for the silence lingered on for what seemed like minutes. All that was heard was the distant exhales of air through the teachers' and student's mouths.

"Pardon me," Sherlock excused, addressing the staff members in the politest way he could. Seconds later, his long fingers curved around the massive door and his head peered around the entrance to the hospital wing. He closed the door behind him, drowning out the voices that now blurted out once more.

The brunette rolled his eyes as he made his way over to where John sat on his bed. The Gryffindor marked his page and set his book on the table, pulling one knee up to his chest and relaxing the other. Sherlock pulled up the closest chair and sat hunched over, his elbows digging into his kneecaps.

"How have you been?" he asked awkwardly. "I haven't seen you since the match, so —" He made a flicking motion with his hands and looked up at the boy with his eyes only.

John sighed and bent his head down in shame. "Been doing okay," he answered the question shyly, gesturing his head at the bandages covering his forearm. "Hurts," he added, mumbling. He squeezed the wound for the fourth time that day, applying pressure and cringing at the pain. Holmes leaned in closer, stretching his arm to rest on the bed just in case. "Don't do that," the Ravenclaw told him, forcing John's left arm off his bad one, which was locked on the cast.

"I have to," the younger wizard interjected, releasing his grasp and biting back the tears that were welling up in his eyes. "Madam Pomfrey's orders. I have to check on it every hour or so."

"You're just going to torment yourself even more than you already are…" The hold on John's wrist was fixed, and he felt his pulse beat against Sherlock's palm. The thick veins in his arm were bright blue, and Watson found himself breathing in short, quick breaths. He blinked twice, feeling the tears swell behind his eyelashes as a selected droplet slide down his face.

Sherlock got up from his sitting position, still clutching the shorter boy's wrist. He didn't seem like himself; he kept fidgeting and flinching at any sign of movement. He let go and settled himself on the bed, his ribs brushing John's bent knee and his hip resting against his friend's outstretched leg. Reaching over his friend's leg bone, Sherlock managed to pluck a tissue from the box on the bedside table. Crumbling the thin paper into a ball, Holmes raised the towel to Watson's face. Patting the younger boy's puffy eyes, Sherlock carefully wiped the tears from his buddy's cheeks.

"Don't cry…" he whispered, moving his hand to John's other eye. When he removed his palm from the strong‒hearted boy's face, John's piercing eyes gazed at him. "It's okay, John," Sherlock said, feeling the softness of his cheek while adjusting and flattening the sandy locks in his hair. "Nothing will happen to you."

"You promise?" John asked. There was a pause, and Sherlock smiled at the unexpected question, letting his brilliant green eyes scan the younger boy's face.

"I promise," he insisted, grabbing his best friend's tiny hand in his and placing both of them over his heart.

* * *

John was released from the hospital wing mid‒afternoon the next day, and he kept his injured arm hidden under his robes' sleeve as he roamed the halls. The only time he revealed the bandages was when he cut up some porcupine quills for his potion during his last class of the day.

Moriarty stood close by and whispered into the lion's ear halfway through class, teasing him. "How's your arm? Irene didn't get a scratch on her." He snickered along with a few of his demon friends and John gave him a threatening look.

"Ignore him," Lestrade supported, returning to stir the orange potion counterclockwise. The bell rang to end class twenty‒five minutes later and the two Gryffindors gathered their things in shorter first year caught a glimpse of the Slytherin sticking his tongue out at him, and John felt Lestrade's hand pushing against his stomach before he could take off after him.

The two boys met up with Molly outside the Great Hall for an afternoon snack. She was panting as she'd just rushed from the Charms classroom and was determined to meet them on time.

"Happy Halloween!" She managed to say between gasps, and Greg checked the date on his watch.

"Is it really the 31st?" he asked, looking taken aback. "Blimey, it is."

"Where's Sherlock?" John asked, immediately noticing the tallest of the four friends was missing.  _He has Charms with Molly today._ Watson knew Holmes's schedule by heart and found it odd that he wasn't around.  _He probably singled_ _himself out from the world again and is hiding in the library,_ he thought.

"Um, I don't know," Hooper said, staring over her shoulder nervously. "He was right behind me a moment ago..."

"Hey, John." A new voice joined into the conversation; a high‒pitched, girly voice. John turned to see who had announced his name and found Mary Morstan waving briefly at him, passing by with a group of Hufflepuff girls. Watson awkwardly gestured back while blushing, giving her a small smile as she headed away from where their small group stood in the center of the entrance corridor.

"Don't worry, John," Lestrade said, punching his shoulder. "You'll see him at the Halloween feast tonight. I'll be baffled if he doesn't show up."

"Yeah…" John sighed and turned back to face his two classmates. "I suppose. Let's go back up to the common room. I want to send a response letter to my mum and dad."

* * *

"He's not here."

John had scanned every visible head sitting at the Ravenclaw table, but none of them had brown, messy curls. Even the seat behind his bench was occupied by four sixth year girls.

"You probably missed him," Lestrade said, digging into a piece of grilled chicken. The golden goblets were filled with various types of fruit juices, and the dishes held mounds of chicken, steak, and roast beef. Thousands of floating carved pumpkins had replaced the normal flickering candles, their faces in all sorts of demented expressions.

Halloween decorations had been scattered all over the Great Hall, with fake spiders crawling on the table, the Hogwarts ghosts floating all around the room, gliding through people and giving them shivers, and real live bats circling the enchanted ceiling. The night sky was clear except for a few clouds while bunches of stars twinkled above their heads. Lestrade turned around in his chair to see Molly flinch multiple times at the bats flying through the ceiling arches at the table for badgers.

"I'm telling you he's not here," John argued, not wanting to lose the fight. He stood up over the crowd of students but still hadn't found a sign of the younger Holmes brother. "I don't know where he could be. He wouldn't skip a meal, even if he wasn't hungry." John swiveled back around on the bench, staring at his plate and eyeing the roast beef hungrily. His stomach grumbled, but without Sherlock there he had no interest in eating whatsoever.

No one paid the slightest interest that Sherlock wasn't sitting at the Ravenclaw table. He hadn't made any friends from his own house, so nobody knew he was missing. Sally Donovan was secretly glad he wasn't around to make fun of her, and John shot her a look across the table. She rolled her eyes at him and muttered something about the name 'psychopath'.

The eleven‒year‒old was reminded of the day of his first Quidditch match as Lestrade kept encouraging him to eat, pointing his fork at John's empty plate. Not wanting to, the blond shoved a few bites of beef into his mouth, feeling the chewiness of the meat against his gums. He swallowed hard, causing some of the food to get stuck in the back of his throat, so he coughed and re swallowed with a huge effort.

* * *

"You go." John shooed Greg away up the marble stairs. "I want to discuss something with Hagrid first." Lestrade gave a small nod, confused, but skipped up the marble staircase with the rest of the students nonetheless.

He really didn't want to talk with the Keeper of the Keys. John just wanted some alone time.  _I need to find Sherlock,_ he told himself. Since he was on the first floor, he figured searching all the halls was the best place to begin. _Sherlock wouldn't be outside,_ John considered.  _He never goes outside unless I force him to. He hates nature._

All the corridors in the dungeons were deserted except for the last of the Slytherins making their way to their common room. On his way back up the staircase to the entrance hall, John ran into the teacher he least wanted to get caught by while roaming the corridors.

"Mr. Watson," came the cold, snarling tone of Severus Snape. John stared up into his pale face. His nose was quite hooked on the end and his hair was shiny because it was covered with so much slime and grease. He could pass as a vampire if he tried hard enough. Snape held his hands in the way he always did when he was about to humiliate one of his students; hooked together, elbows locked against his ribs, fingers intertwining.

The head of Slytherin house flicked his thumbs together, and John waited for his detention to be assigned. "What might a short first year be doing lurking around in the dungeons after dinner?" He teased the suspect, his lip curling into a wicked grin.

_He called me short…That_ _was offensive._

John tried to cover his lie as best as he could without showing it on his face. "I was walking down with a friend and didn't realize I was going the wrong direction."

"A reasonable explanation." The professor's robes were so black they blended in with the walls. He looked like his head was floating in mid air along with his hands. "Move along, Mr. Watson. Don't let me catch you wandering around again in the dungeons randomly, or it will be a night of scrubbing ruined cauldrons with me. I'll let it slide this evening, as it is a holiday."

"Yes sir," John said, bowing his head down slightly and sliding past him. He passed the head of the serpent house without glancing up at his face and hurried along the corridor, his school uniform swishing behind him. The entrance hall was deserted when he stepped into view, and the lights from the floating pumpkins in the next room casted a spooky glow as he ran past the dining hall. The ghosts continued to float over the house tables, chiming different chords to the chorus of a lousy song as they passed over the pumpkins.

His feet sent echoes on the marble stairs as he ascended back to Gryffindor Tower on his own. John had to wait patiently as one of the first staircases shifted under his feet and began to move. After a dreadful time waiting and listening to a nearby portrait crack bad Halloween jokes, he continued up the floors of the castle level by level, waiting for the painting of the Fat Lady to appear at the end of the east corridor on the seventh floor.

Before he came to the correct hallway, John's feet shuffled to a stop. He thought he heard a strange noise coming from somewhere to his right. He became curious and adventured down a corridor he didn't know existed. Watson found nothing but a strange drawing of an unknown wizard in a frame and a door that looked like it shouldn't have existed. It was smack dab in the middle of a stone wall, and its color was black with small dots bordering the hinges were rusty and the barrier looked extremely old.

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw movement behind one of the pillars extending up to the ceiling. From behind the column, the shape of a black shoe shifted and slid across the floor. Then another came to rest on top of the first, and the two feet struggled as if they were in danger. Calves poked out from behind the blocking pole, and a set of knees became exposed to match.

Tiptoeing, John went around the column while staying as close to the far wall as possible, aware that it might be someone he didn't know. His hand scanned over the smooth surface of the stone, sensing the dents in the bricks as his fingernails collected dirt and dust.

As he turned the corner, John found the one person he least expected to see; the person who had been missing all afternoon. Sherlock Holmes was curled in a ball, hands gripping his hair in anger. No,  _fear._ He shifted his feet so they rested side by side on the gleaming floor, and his forehead was buried into his knees as his brown curls brushed his pants.

"S‒Sherlock?" John was so startled he didn't know how to address his best friend. He stuttered to find words, and Sherlock barely moved an inch when he heard John's bold voice. And then as if someone had pressed a play button to his life,his hands pressed over his ears and slowly like a snail, Holmes raised his chin.

The eagle's stunning green eyes were filled with hurtand a stormy touch of grey circled his pupils. He was shaking from head to toe, his fingers resting on the back of his neck. The centers of his eyes were tiny, and a dark shadow from the kerosene lamps made half his long face covered in a shadow.

"Sherlock…" John said again in a whisper. He pushed off from the wall and started towards the older boy's curled figure, hunched in the corner with his mouth just barely agape. Sherlock didn't move as John lowered himself onto the floor next to the Ravenclaw, kneeling down and gripping the brunette's left , without even believing John was there, Holmes placed both hands on his cheekbones, exhaling deep breaths with sweat dripping down his forehead.

And then, as if someone had removed the fright from his brain, Sherlock slowly turned his head to face the only friend he had. Violently, John found his wrist being grabbed on for dear life, but when the older boy spoke his voice cracked significantly.

"John…"

Holmes shuttered once more, his spine weaving and twisting like a cat. His head became lead and it fell into the blond's chest, and Watson pulled him in close, muttering small but comfortable words.

"Sherlock…" John managed for the fourth or fifth time since he'd found him. "Sherlock," he said, forcing the Ravenclaw to face him with his shoulders square, "what happened?"

 _Sherlock Holmes is afraid…Afraid._ John couldn't believe the sight he was witnessing. The strongest boy he knew was breaking down right in front of his eyes, shaking uncontrollably and losing his mind. Gathering the dreadful thoughts Sherlock didn't want to, he told his loyal friend the horrifying moment he'd experienced an hour ago, yet the words spilled from his mouth in gasps and stumbles.

"I‒I…" He changed his sentence and John shook him when didn't continue.

"Come on, Sherlock…" The older of the pair let out a sort of cry before beginning his story.

"I…It was the —" He paused again.

"The what? What? Sherlock, please tell me. I want to help."

His spine shuddered again, and Sherlock dreaded saying the name of the creatures. "Dementors."

"What!" John nearly screamed and fell backwards in a panic. He regained his composure and tried to stare back into the brunette's green eyes.

"It…it was horrible," Sherlock explained, continuing on with more violent chokes of breaths. "I‒I felt like, everything I ever had, every happy memory in my brainwas taken from me…"

"What did they try to do? Sherlock…"

"They…they tried to attack me. Luckily Mycroft was there at the right time and came to rescue me." John sat stunned, his mouth open and his heartbeat racing inside his chest. Sherlock's blue and bronze tie sat unnoticed on the floor, and he'd taken off his robes and grey sweater to release some of the heat he was racking up.

John couldn't think of anything best to comfort his friend except to encircle him in a hug. He felt Sherlock tugging at the bottom of his sweater, his hot breath escaping from his mouth and skimming over the fabric, spreading germs onto the edge of his clothing.

Sherlock broke away after a few minutes and sniffed his nose. He didn't show his emotions much, but he'd obviously been knocked up big time. Even though no tears had swelled up in his eyes, he couldn't stop shaking.

To try and continue the weird conversation, John asked the only question that was spinning in his brain. "So what do we do?"

Sherlock raised his head from the Gryffindor's chest, mulling over the thoughts in his mind. Something clicked in his brain, because Watson could see the invisible light bulb above his skull go off. "Fear is optional," he stated, and John agreed by nodding his head. "The only way to defeat fear is…to fight it."

* * *

Five bodies stood before the mysterious black door in the stone wall, all positioned as if doing a photo shoot. Sherlock stood in the middle, with two schoolmates on either side of him, forming the shape of a 'V'.  _Three Gryffindors, one Hufflepuff, one Ravenclaw. Three boys, two girls._

Closing his eyes gently, Sherlock focused on the door in front of him, making sure he got what he wanted. Satisfied, he made his way up to the entrance, holding out his arm from his body.  _Creak._ The steel handle was cold against his palm, and when he pushed the door open a known place came into view.

The room seemed both physically and mentally impossible to exist, because it was bigger on the inside. When Molly stepped inside, she found the left wall extended farther than the actual wall outside did. It was very long and rectangular, with a hint of blue about the room and two large mirrors in all four corners. The roof was high and arched, and on two of the side walls there were towering bookshelves. The books had both fragile and new bindings, and scattered among the shelves were strange wizard tools no one had seen except Sherlock.

Straight ahead from their path was a fireplace, but no flames flickered or roared sprouting from the logs. The room was completely blank of furniture and exposed a wide open area. The five students stood in a line parallel to the wall from which they'd just entered, all looking extremely confused except the leader.

_John Watson, Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes, Mary Morstan, Greg Lestrade._

"May I ask why we're here?" Greg questioned before anyone else could. "You said we were going to do something important, but why bring us here? Where even are we?"

"Well, Lestrade," Sherlock sighed, stepping forward and turning to face the other first years, "we are in the Room of Requirement."

"Does this room not have a specific occupation or something?"

"It does what the title of it says. Whatever you need, and if you ask politely, the castle will give it to you. For example, if you really needed a place to sleep because you couldn't get back to your common room, the place would mold into a bedroom."

"Well, that's nifty." He grinned in appreciation.

"Magic," John inputted, a smug grin on his sealed lips as he nodded his head generously.

"But I still don't understand." It was Mary's turn to inject her voice into the conversation. "Why are we here?"

"You have not yet heard, except John..." The shortest boy in the room hid his embarrassment. "But a few days ago I had a little…incident." He removed his wand from his pants' pocket and waved it at the door, which swung closed on its hinges. Holmes bounced twice on his feet, grasping his hands behind his back and then continued on. "It has come to my attention that the dementors of Azkaban that guard our school are gradually trying to attack the students."

Lestrade coughed on his own spit and gagged. Morstan spoke for him as he tried to clear his throat. "What?"

"There have been two attacks at once a few days ago, which is not normal for the creatures." He answered the Gryffindor female's question before she could add a ridiculous comment. "Dumbledore would not allow the dementors to harm his students; therefore, someone is ordering them to slowly destroy the school." Mary gave John a nervous glance down the line, and her male housemate shifted uneasily on his feet.

"How do you know that?" Molly asked cautiously, lifting her hand and fumbling with her fingers.

 _People sometimes,_ Sherlock thought, controlling himself not to roll his eyes. "Is there any other logical explanation?" Molly went silent and stared at the ground.

"Then, what do we do?" John asked his first question. Obviously he knew the answer from Halloween night, but he asked just to make Sherlock get to his point.

"There is only one thing we can do. Since we have to be prepared in case they do attack us, we need to learn how to fight them; to protect ourselves." Lestrade grinned in a pleasing way and slipped his hands into his pockets. "I did a little research," the only Ravenclaw told them, remembering the things he'd read about the spell. "A dementor can only be affected by what is called a Patronus."

"What's a Patronus?" Mary interrupted. Her blonde hair was groomed flatly against her skull, and her scalp was barely visible in the mass of hair.

"A Patronus is a spell, almost like a shield, that comes between yourself and the dementor. It pushes off the creature, saving your life." John crossed his arms, squinting his eyes ever so slightly, listening to Sherlock deeply.

"Then again," the tallest male continued, raising his eyebrows for a dramatic effect, "a Patronus is one of the most difficult spells to produce properly."

The level of hope from the first years in the Room of Requirement seemed to drop about 98%.


	14. The Woman

** Chapter Fourteen **

The Woman

* * *

John casually leaned back in a beanbag chair Sherlock had conjured out of thin air. The Room of Requirement was silent, except for the soft  _pat_ _pat_ of the Ravenclaw's feet on the floor as he paced tenderly. Three of the five eleven‒year‒olds had left, leaving the two best friends remaining alone after their short first lesson, which they'd spent organizing time frames to practice.

Watson had his nose buried in a book, studying how exactly a Patronus was supposed to work. From the never ending list of instructions, the shield seemed more than 50% physically impossible to produce.

"Nice job today." Sherlock stopped pacing, his hands pressed together against his lips.  _He's thinking._ John knew, considering the amount of times the older boy made deductions about the universe. He had now nicknamed himself 'the consulting detective.'

The Holmes brother looked confused. "For what?"

"Let's just say, sticking up for yourself, shall we call it…" Sherlock could only see the corners of John's grin from behind his book. He chuckled and pulled out his stick of wood from the inside pocket of his robes and twirled it between his fingers.  _Bored,_ he thought.

John watched curiously and yawned as Sherlock drew something in mid air with his wand. What he sketched appeared on the opposite wall next to the bookcase, and the shorter boy mimicked the expression. A bright yellow smiley face magically was traced onto the white bricks, and it could have been mistaken for spray paint if it had not come from the end of the wizard's wand.

Sighing and doing a quarter turn to his left, Sherlock swished his robes without appreciation. Then, raising his wand without caring, he sent a jet of red sparks flying through the air. They hit the face smack where the nose would have been, sending smoke spreading over the bricks.

"What the hell are you doing?" John threw the book onto the floor and flailed his arms in an alarmed way. He felt the heat of the spell as it flew by his ear, making a whizzing noise.

"Bored," was Sherlock's response, turning his back to the lion and sinking into his left hip. He slapped his palms on his thighs, beating out a rough staccato.

"What do you say we have a go then?" John suggested, properly closing the book he'd dropped and fixing the bent pages. He hopped up from his lounging chair and pulled his wand out so Sherlock could see. Holmes gave Watson a quizzical look, and the Gryffindor stated the obvious for the oblivious consulting student.

"Patronus," John said, giving the hint with his tone of voice and body language.

"John, I have already informed you that a Patronus is very advanced magic and almost impossible to produce," Holmes repeated, but the younger boy didn't abandon his persistence so easily.

"You said fear is optional," John quoted his friend, voice echoing as he strode the length of the room and stopped in front of the fireplace. His back was to Sherlock and his hands grasped together. "Besides, wasn't that the point of you bringing us here? And —"

"Not the case with you, John," Sherlock cut him off, and all the receiver did was raise his head, still ignoring his friend. "You're a Gryffindor. You rarely experience fear."

"That's not so." His figure turned around now. Sherlock made deductions even from ten meters away.  _Quidditch practice tomorrow, needs to change his arm bandages, didn't sleep well last night, smells of shampoo_ _,_ _(_ _clearly took a shower this morning…_ _)_

John's hand wove around the edge of his robes, pushing them aside to rest on his hip. He debated the best way possible to continue the conversation. And so he spoke in his loud, confident voice so Sherlock could hear every word across the chamber. "Fear can only be defeated by strength. And strength doesn't come from your brain, Sherlock." Holmes was puzzled at the thought of not being able to use his brain.

_Could legitimately mean muscles. Or is John referring to emotional strength?_

"I'll give you a hint," Watson said, and Holmes didn't think the statement was rhetorical, "you're looking right at a person who has one…"

_Sentiment, must be._

Okay, at least one partof the clue was obvious. The only other person in the room besides himself was Watson. Holmes's eyes became narrow, staring blankly at his friend; the friend he'd met in April about half a year ago. The friend who had a Muggle sister, wore jumpers all the time, and had an irresistible smile of pearl‒white teeth.

_Blond hair smoothed down regularly, black robes coming to rest just below the ankl_ _e._ _Shoelaces_ _tied loosely, not a freckle sprouting on his face_ _._ _Tie_ _tucked neatly into his sweater_ _,_ _golden_ _lion protruding from the border of his scarlet badge sewn on his chest. Gryffindor house color bands trimming the edge of the grey sweater with the cuffs of his white buttoned shirt just barely visible under his sleeves. Top of his cloak unhooked with the v_ _‒_ _neck sweater showing._

"That was selfish," John told himself, stepping closer to Sherlock so he could barely hear him. When he reached his friend's side, all he did was exchange a small smile. "I'll leave you to your deductions then," Watson said, patting Holmes on the upper arm.

John began to walk away but stopped with his hand inches from the door handle. Curious, he wheeled back around to ask the Ravenclaw a bothering question. "Did you ever figure out what your boggart is? After, not having a go in class?"

Mildly dazed, Sherlock turned around. "I have...a vague idea of what it might be, yes." His hands were clenched behind his back, the way he stood when he was about to prove a point.

"Oh." The blond eleven‒year‒old stared down at his shoes, watching his toes wiggle under the leather. "And what might that be…?" he asked nervously.

Holmes directly tried to change the subject. "We're discussing the wrong spell. Why don't you have a go?"

"What?" John asked, removing his hand from the door and contracting his eyebrows.  _Oh_ _my god John, you just wanted to practice five minutes ago…_

But John didn't ask the question in confusion; he asked it in seriousness.

"Why is it always me…" the athlete mumbled to himself, lowering his head. Sherlock didn't hear him so he turned his head to expose his ear to his friend.

"Sorry?"

"Nothing," John replied quickly. "Alright then, Mr. Genius," he taunted, placing his hands on his hips, "what's the spell?"

Sherlock didn't pull his teaching skills until after John took off his robes and sweater, leaving him standing in his pants, tie, white shirt, and sneakers. The shorter boy rolled up his sleeves, revealing his practicing appearance outside of class. His wand was held in his left hand and Sherlock watched him stroll casually over to where the Ravenclaw stood.

"Well," the older brunette stumbled, looking for the right place to begin, throwing his tie off to join John's, "the spell is  _Expecto_ _patronum_."  _I sound like an adult…_ Sherlock insulted himself.  _Lame._

"But —" he said, cutting John off and raising his tone, "there's more to it than just saying the spell out loud."

"Okay…" John gave the clue that he was lost. "How do you mean?"

"Well John, you see a Patronus can only be produced properly with one thing." He drifted across the floor to stand opposite Watson, holding his wand diagonally in his hands like he was about to duel his friend. "A happy memory."

 _Okay…be more specific…_ "This isn't making a lot of sense…" The questions were firing rapidly from John's mouth, but Sherlock kept his composure and took things one step at a time.

"John…" He paused for an effect. "What's the opposite of fear?"

"Um, I don't know…bravery?"

"Happiness." It clicked in John's brain and he nodded his head in an 'oh!' kind of way.

_So, what does this have to do with dementors?_

Holmes acted as if he'd read the blond's mind. "The only way you can fight fear is by thinking the opposite. To conjure a Patronus, you must think of a happy memory. And not just any happy memory, but an extremely powerful one."

"You make this sound a lot easier than that book," John commented. Sherlock smirked. Watson thrashed his finger a few times through the air, not understanding something again. "The book said a Patronus is a guardian. What does that mean?"

 _This is going to be a long chat…_ "There are two types of Patronuses, John. Depending on how strong your memory or thought is, it varies which one you'll produce. An incorporeal Patronus only takes on the shape of a silvery wisp or shield, as you might say. It will still protect you, but you're limited to how much protection it will defend you with."

"But, if a wizard has the ability to conjure a corporeal Patronus, his or her spell will take on the shape of an animal." John looked up from the floor at the mention of another live being protecting a human from harm. "In order to do this," Sherlock said, pointing his finger at the listener, "as everyone would like to, you must have mind‒blowing skill and the happiest memory you've ever experienced in your life."

"So you're saying that if I come up with a strong enough memory from my mind, I might just conjure an animal out of the end of my wand? And it will protect me from harm?"

"Correct," Sherlock said.

_Seems legit…_

"You realize you're going have to explain all this again to everyone else, right?"

"Of course. I'm keeping that in mind."

"Alright." John was done, and so Sherlock had the ability to speak and carry on with his lecture.

"Technically you can use a Patronus to protect you from any enemy, not just monsters, because it is a shield that fights off evil for you. It's not as easy as you think though."  _Figures_ _…_ John thought.  _It's never that simple._

"Right. What was the spell again?"

" _Expecto_ _patronum_." The words were spoken clearly from the teacher's mouth. John nodded.

"Funny enough, it translates to 'I await a guardian'."  _Show off_ , John thought, obviously knowing Sherlock would recall such a thing. "So, before you say the spell John, think of the happiest memory you can."

 _Oh, this could take ages…_ He started to rack his memory, turning the gears so he only focused on happy thoughts and eliminated the bad ones. He closed his eyes so it helped him more, and after a few minutes settled on a reasonable idea.

"Okay, I'm ready," he announced, gripping his wand tightly in his hand. "Wait!" he yelled, "I'm not going to practice on a dementor, am I?"

"Come on, John. I'm not that mean…" The lion didn't totally believe him. "Besides; do you think I would bring one of those creatures into this room? Unnoticed?" John shook his head, the stress releasing in his chest.

"Then —"

"Think Defense Against the Dark Arts class, John." The Gryffindor could tell the eagle was getting ticked off at him not using his brain.

Nothing was coming to mind. "Um…" he mumbled, tapping his wand on the side of his leg, stuck.

And then it hit him, and his happy memory was erased and taken over by the horrified picture; images of Sherlock lying limp on a wooden floor, broken eyes and ghostly white skin came back to haunt him. "A boggart," he muttered, looking up at the Ravenclaw with hurt in his eyes.

"Precisely."

"And where exactly are you going to find one?" His question was answered by a walnut cabinet appearing out of nowhere with a snap of Sherlock's fingers, and a familiar banging noise came from the inside to fill the room.

"All you have to do is ask for something and you get it," Holmes said, a grin spreading over his lips.

"Shut that thing up, will you?" John tried to ask politely, forcing himself to ignore the flashes of his dead best friend in his mind.

The boy with green eyes snapped his fingers again, which sent a loud echo throughout the room and the cabinet vanished. "Ready?"

John nodded, letting out a deep breath. "Well now I can't do it cause your brought that thing into our presence..." Holmes sighed heavily and stepped a few paces backwards to give his friend some space. Concentrating on his memory, the boy wearing his red and gold tie raised his wand. " _Expecto_ _patronum_ _!"_  he yelled, waiting for a graceful animal to leap from the end of his wand, but he didn't expect to get it the very first time.

Nothing happened. John exhaled, glancing at his wand like it was a sad song about cancer. " _Expecto_ _patronum_ _!"_  he tried again, but nothing erupted from his stick of carved wood.

"Concentrate harder, John," Sherlock urged him, turning his hands into fists to beckon the boy. "You can do it."

_The swoosh of owl wings on the wind, with a letter clamped to its leg. My letter. My Hogwarts letter._

" _Expecto_ _patronum!_ _"_ The tip of his wand gave off a weak throw of white sparks but then returned to its original state as quickly as the spell had escaped. John gave up hope and made a motion with his hand, clearly thinking it was hopeless.

"Come on, John," the older boy urged him again, but the shorter learner stopped Sherlock by waving him off with his wrist.

"I‒I can't Sherlock…" John almost whispered, not believing in himself. Despite being his first time attempting to produce a Patronus, John thought he wouldn't make any progress over the next few weeks.

With that he threw his sweater back over his head, messing up his blond locks and failing to pull his shirt down all the way. Several fat wrinkles lined the bottom, but they were covered up hastily when his robes were thrown over his shoulder.

"See you later," the lion mumbled, glanced vaguely at his teacher before heading off towards the door.

He left Sherlock standing alone as the door clicked behind him, and the Ravenclaw furious with himself about his teaching skills and his lack of assistance, yet miserable that his friend had a shortage of courage in himself.

* * *

"Mr. Holmes…" The first year Slytherin was elbowing him in the ribs, distracting him from attending to the boring plant on the table. His Wednesday morning Herbology class with the Slytherins was lacking energy as usual, and he couldn't wait for his second lesson about Patronuses later that same week.

He knew it would be tedious trying to teach his fellow classmates about one of the hardest charms in the entire wizarding world, but at least John relatively knew how to conjure one already. And even if their lesson was a few days away on Saturday, he couldn't wait to improve his leadership skills.

John was miserable about his failed attempt at his first Patronus, but Sherlock found him early the next morning and told him most wizards didn't cast a full one till at least their tenth or more try. Some of the most well known wizards weren't even able to cast them, and an eleven‒year‒old Hogwarts student conjuring one up was just unheard of.

 _Ouch!_ Irene Adler had punched him again and Sherlock gave her the hairy eyeball.

"What Irene?" he snapped, plucking a few of the leaves from his plant and placing them in a plastic container. She flattened the front of her cloak so Sherlock could see the emerald and silver badge on her chest, and the boy from the blue and bronze house huffed it off, not interested.

She adjusted her stance before continuing. Her short, grey shirt was rolled up, exposing far too much skin than she should have. "I'd only hope to think you're as good as people say." Irene held her hands in a distracting way, with her fingers curled gracefully without touching her palms. Her nails had been painted with a fresh coat of dark purple polish.

Sherlock tilted his head without moving the rest of his upper body, almost like one of those actions figure dolls. His eyes contracted to make deductions, but all he could see was the sky blue eye shadow behind her lashes under her eyebrows and the rose colored lipstick she wore.  _Nothing._

_NOTHING._

_Why isn't this working_ _?_ _I can't come up with a single thing_ _._ _This is not, normal._ _.._

"Do you know the big problem with a disguise, Mr. Holmes?" He raised his eyebrows at the pondering question, his expression mimicking such an amused look. "No matter how hard you try it's always a self portrait." She said her sentence as if she was showing him off.

There was only one thing he could make out from her figure.  _Long fingernails_ _._ _Bright_ _violet. A_ _girl._

_Everybody has a weak spot._

* * *

He started making his way back to the castle on his own after the bell rang to end the first period class. His bag strap hung diagonally down his torso, digging into his chest as he strolled along, holding the bottom of bag where the elastic connected to the body of the bookcase.

His feet crunched on the early November grass, and small frost crystals littered the ground. Each individual blade was fading to brown.  _Almost dead._

"Mr. Holmes."  _Ugh._ Sherlock rolled his eyes in their sockets and turned around to glare at the Slytherin who resembled a young woman. She was swaggering with her wide hips towards the taller Ravenclaw, holding two books in her arms.

"Why?"

The demanded question made no sense to her. "What?" she asked, stopping and standing on her two inch high heels in the grass.

"Mr. Holmes," he replied in a gentleman‒like way. "It's a bit much, don't you think?" He was going smart aleck on her.

"Oh, I don't think so." Agile like a cat, she came far too close to him.

 _Whoa, she's invading my personal space._ No one ever came within five feet of him. She was right up to his face, her nose in the same line as his shoulder.  _Shrimp,_ he snorted, amused by the fact that Adler was shorter than his best friend, even with her shoes on.

"Sooner or later, you're going to need someone on your side." She slid something into the opening of his bag. He gave her a look, straightening his spine so he seemed taller and more confident.

"You think you're the girl for that job, do you?"

"Sherlock, we're more alike than you think."  _Okay, she's coming way too close now._ Irene had to rise up on the balls of her feet to whisper into his ear. "Till the next time, Mr. Holmes."

 _My eyes just went wide_ _,_ he noted.

Irene left him standing alone, and her lingering breath was felt on his cheek before she ventured off to her next class. Her lips passed inches by his left ear, and one of the curls on his head slid to tickle his forehead.

He extracted the piece of parchment she'd slipped into his possession, thinking he hadn't noticed. Smack dab in the middle of the scroll was some sort of puzzle he supposed he had to solve. Four blank boxes, perfectly drawn in the shapes of squares, were mushed in between two lines of words.

All the parchment said was:

_I Am_

[] [] [] []

_Locked_

* * *

"Right," Sherlock said, clapping and rubbing his hands together. "Now, I want you to choose a really powerful memory. The happiest you can remember." He strolled around the room, walking in the middle of the four students who stood in each corner of the Room of Requirement.

Lestrade looked utterly confused, and Molly clearly didn't understand completely because she shriveled her face up in thought. John and Sherlock were the only two in the room who understood, but the shortest Gryffindor could still only manage a small flick of silver from the end of his wand. Mary kept shooting him sweet smiles from across the room, and Sherlock secretly noticed that John blushed deep pink in his cheeks from the attention.

"The only way to produce a full and complete Patronus is to have a memory that can overpower your enemy. Allow it to fill you up, to boil inside your chest." Some sort of butterfly seemed to flutter inside Molly's stomach. Maybe that was her driving force.

"Mary, have a go," Sherlock encouraged, passing by and stopping to watch her. To get some of the pressure off Morstan, Greg tried to cast his own shield. " _Expecto patronum_." His wrist twitched, but only a couple sparks shot from his wand.

 _I'm not thinking hard enough,_ he told himself. He spoke out loud while Sherlock tried to comfort Mary with her failed spell. "How are we supposed to defend ourselves in danger when we can't come up with one bloody happy thought?"

 _This is not my kind of subject,_ Sherlock considered.  _Sentiment again._

But John spoke for him, being the more loyal friend who understood more about emotions than Holmes did. "It's really difficult, but just clear you mind. Make it like that's the only thing you've ever experienced or came across. Trust me; you won't get it on the first try." A nervous smile was passed on to the only Ravenclaw in the room, and Sherlock knew where the reference was from. He returned the gesture, and his best friend turned back to his progressing work, hunching his back over to concentrate better.

Lestrade nodded his head, grateful that John gave him the advice. He brushed off his black hair from his hairline, feeling a cold rush sweep over him. From across the room, Greg heard Watson's strong voice cast the spell.

" _Expecto patronum_ _!"_

Some sort of silver mist swirled out from the tip of John's wand, and it orbited around the center like a minute galaxy. Small, glittery blue sparkles were dotted in the whitish vapor, and it had a radius of at least a foot wide.

"John!" Sherlock was incredibly surprised and moved away from Mary as the lion produced a fantastic start for his third attempt.

"Ha! Did you see that!" John almost jumped for joy like a child on Christmas day. "I did it!"

* * *

"Nice job today."  _Déjà vu from a week ago, but the other way around. Positions switched._

"What?" John said, looking up from polishing his wand while sitting on the hard floor, his legs bent and turned out by chance and habit.

"Your Patronus." The smile spread across Sherlock's face and the grin was too much to ignore.

John's small beam molded into a frown, and he sighed. "It wasn't much." He sounded hurt.

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock seemed offended as he stared at John in disbelief. "You were the best one in here today!"

"You know why, right?" The question was uncalled for, and Sherlock didn't know how to respond.

 _Weird silence._ "N‒No," he admitted.

John pushed himself off the floor, tucking his wand into his jeans' pocket.  _That black and white striped long_ _‒_ _sleeved shirt looks phenomenal on John…_

"It's because I have a great teacher." His hands went into his pockets and he bashfully headed to the door. When the tips of his fingers touched the cool steel, Sherlock stopped him.

"John, wait! Don't leave…" He stood tall and proud, his shoulders down and back with his arms floating out by his sides. His Ravenclaw tie was draped over his shoulders, and the buttons on his white shirt looked like they could snap off at any second.

"Please…" He pleaded for the blond to come back. "I‒I want to do this every week."  _There, I said it. I got my confession out._

"Do what?"

"I‒I just want to practice with you, alone, after everyone else leaves. You and me." He pointed to his friend and then back to himself, showing what he meant even though it was obvious.

Watson looked slightly mortified yet pleased at the same time. "It could be our alone time together." John stared down at the floor, considering the offer.

When he lifted his head, Sherlock was inches from his face, and there was no stopping the lurching that went through his body. "I promised," was all he said. "I promised to keep you safe."

"I know."  _He's squeezing my wrist again._

"Come on." Holmes smacked him on his back. "Just a few more tries?"

John gave in. He stood in the middle of the room, Sherlock a few meters off to his right, positioned to cast his spell. Letting out a deep exhale, he shouted, " _Expecto patronum_ _!"_

The enormous shield erupted from the end of John's wand, growing to be larger than his height. He pointed his wooden stick at the ceiling to prevent his incorporeal Patronus from bumping into the floor. Sherlock couldn't find any words to express his shock, so thus he stood watching the shorter Gryffindor as the smile spread over his face in wonder.

When the producer's head turned to see Sherlock, his spell faded and died off, leaving him standing and panting for no reason.

"John…How did you do that?"

"I‒I don't know," he admitted, lowering his wand.

An idea suddenly struck the older boy, knowing it might be too much for his buddy to handle in such a rushed manner. The sooner he got the request out however, the better John's spell would be at a young age. "Do you think you could try it on a dementor?"

John clicked his tongue a few times, and then licked his lips before talking, making a sort of wiggle movement with his stomach. He repeated what he said before. "I don't know. I could try." The wardrobe appeared in front of his eyes before he could back out of the situation. "I…No, I can't," he tried to complain, but Sherlock was behind his back, pushing him closer to the banging furniture.

"Yes you can," Sherlock whispered into his ear. "I promise it's the same thing just with a little angst thrown in."  _Way to blemish my hopes,_ John thought.  _It's just going to ruin my chances of success._

The curls on the brunette's head tickled the back of John's neck, and he shivered at the thought of a dementor springing out of him. Sherlock retreated over to stand near the cabinet's side, and he gave a small nod at Watson. John made a 'you're kidding' motion with his hands, trying to beg for the boy to let him back out. He even added the effect of leaving his mouth open for an extra touch.

"Ready?"  _No!_ John wanted to scream, but his throat seemed to be glued shut. "Three…"  _He's counting down too quickly…I can't do this…_ "Two…One…"

 _Snap_  went the handle of the cabinet. A first, the door swung open to reveal nothing but darkness and shadow beyond, but then a disturbing sight came into focus. A slimy, green hand with long fingers and scabs all over curled around the door, and the defender stumbled back a little in fear.

The ragged and torn cloak swayed behind the gliding monster. No feet were visible, and its hood was as usual pulled over the hidden head. John extracted his gaze away from the hooded creature and he focused on the memory he'd just used to produce his incorporeal Patronus.

" _Expecto patronum_ _!"_  he yelled, thrusting his wand at his enemy, but his shield was only the size of a soccer ball.  _Come on…Come on_ _,_ _John!_ he told himself. Sherlock was making strange gestures with his hands, telling the lion he could defeat the creature.

_Oh god…I feel, empty. And the room is becoming so_ _..._ _cold._

" _Expecto patro…expecto…expecto…ex_ _—_ " He could hear something in the back of his brain. He had no idea what was causing the sound, or if the eagle could hear it as well. Maybe he was hallucinating, but it was undeniable when it became so clear he could make out what the noise was. But, it wasn't a familiar sound. It was almost the sound of an explosion; the sound of bombs dropping on sandy deserts in a far off battlefield that was unknown to him.

But then it switched and there was a voice. Someone's voice that was so familiar to John...

_Sherlock…_

His legs collapsed under him as his head hit the floor. All the strength in his muscles was drained from him as the younger Holmes brother forced the boggart back into the wardrobe. He failed, so just by snapping his fingers, the creature vanished.

"John!"

Watson felt another smack on his cheek, but the wakeup call did nothing for him. He drifted off from the world as he went limp in Sherlock's arms and fainted. Booms and shouts filled his eardrums, and cold sweat drenched his unnaturally pale face as he fell into unavoidable sleep.


	15. It Is What It Is

**Chapter Fifteen**

It Is What It Is

* * *

Sherlock sat on the floor of the Room of Requirement, knees bent and pulled up to his chest. A skinny body was lying on the floor behind his back, blond hair dented from the pressure of the room's bottom, blue eyes sleeping behind his eyelids and tiny sweat droplets sprinkling his face.

The fright of the dementor had sent John falling to the floor, unable to conjure a shield to protect himself from harm. The glass candle lamps had dimmed to barely flickering, and now as Sherlock huddled on the floor, he felt the overpowering cold sweep over him even after the dementor had vanished.

" _Incendio_ ," the eagle muttered, pointing his wand at the empty fireplace, which sent flames onto the logs and caught fire. It took a few minutes for the practice space to warm up, and the light ricocheted off the glossy walls like a reflection.

Suddenly there was a groan from the Gryffindor on the floor, and he pushed himself up onto his elbow, rubbing his throbbing head while squinting through blurred eyes. His wand had slid out of his hand when he collapsed and was lying a few feet away. Holmes flung around at the noise from the younger boy's mouth and the shuffle of his feet on the polished floor.

"Oh, um…Hi, John," Sherlock said awkwardly. The receiver sank back onto the floor, groaning and wiping off the crusty sweat from his forehead. Sherlock started to crawl over to his weak friend, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt from the heat of the fire. He reached John's side, bending over his chest, looking into his dazed face. The lion avoided staring into his brilliant green eyes for a few seconds. Then he met them, searching for the truth.

"W‒What happened?" He pulled a clump of his own hair.

"Um…Well, you were doing really well. No you were!" he exclaimed, seeing John roll his eyes in disbelief. "But, when the dementor advanced on you, um, well…you sort of went rigid and held your mouth open in shock. I was afraid you had a heart attack or something…"

"Great," John mumbled, slapping a hand over his face in embarrassment.

 _I know this is rude, but I have to say it anyway._ "Nice wipe out though…" The Ravenclaw smirked just to piss off his friend.

"Shut up," Watson grumbled, rolling over onto his stomach and burying his head in his hands. He mumbled into his palms a few words which were muffled under his body weight. Sherlock didn't know what to say, so he rubbed John's knotted muscles in his upper back.

"I think we'll just stick to no boggart for now…"

"I think that would be best," John agreed, tilting his head so Sherlock could hear.

"You think you're ready for another go?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow. "Without the monster," he added hastily. John rolled over onto his back again, staring at the ceiling with a blank expression. His arm stretched out, tapping the floor for his wand without using eye contact. The wood connected with his fingers and he felt the magical touch in his veins.

 _I'm going to get this…_ he encouraged himself, his eyes flashing with determination and persistence. He offered Sherlock his hand, signaling for his friend to help him up.

"Hell yes."

* * *

Over the next few weeks, the fallen leaves resting on the ground turned a rusty shade of brown and crumbled whenever touched. Every morning, the students of Hogwarts would rise to find a slim layer of frost painted on the grounds. The temperatures began to drop rapidly, and students were seen wearing sweaters outside with scarves keeping their necks warm. Winter was on the verge of existence, fading in to take the place of autumn. November was coming to a close, and a couple weeks remained before the last month of the year.

"But, how can you not have produced one yet?" John questioned one Sunday morning as they strolled towards a small hut on the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Their Patronus lesson the day before was a success for all four students; both John and Lestrade had shields bigger than the length of their torsos, and Molly and Mary always giggled at each other when they spotted each other's hula hoop sized protectors. "In fact," John continued, bending his head down against the cold, "I haven't even seen you try and produce one. You're so focused on us that you don't attempt to cast one yourself."

Sherlock stared down at the untidy note in his hand. Mycroft clearly must have told the Gamekeeper all about his little brother, because he now held an invitation in his grasp. The note read:

_Sherlock,_

_I'd like you to come visit soon. How about stopping round for tea on Sunday?_

_And if you don't mind, bring one of your friends. I'd like to meet them._

_Hagrid_

This was not the way Hagrid always talked, because when he spoke Sherlock disapproved of his lack of grammar skills.  _Such a British thing, to have tea,_ he chuckled. Originally, Sherlock had asked Molly to accompany him, but she refused and claimed she had an essay to write. She just wanted to get out of meeting the half‒giant in person. And Holmes wasn't going to put up with Lestrade for over half an hour, so the only available option left was John or nobody.

Sherlock made up a ridiculous excuse to answer John's remark. "I have been practicing." That bit was true. "But on my own. I just haven't been able to come up with a memory that's strong enough." He gave Watson a quick smile so the younger boy believed him and went back to warming his hands.

Sherlock knew he lied. He felt guilty about not telling the truth to the only person he trusted.  _I have produced a Patronus,_ he said rather angrily to himself.  _Just like John's. A strong shield, but not corporeal yet._

His feet began to pick up the pace as John looked like he was about to freeze. His cheeks were bright pink and his hands were beginning to turn white. Sherlock didn't show the slightest sign that he was cold, as he'd even left his Ravenclaw scarf back in his dormitory. John's red and gold scarf was so long in came down to his rib cage, even when it was wrapped around his neck once. Every individual thread was bold against the black tint of his cloak.

"Oh, I should probably warn you now," Sherlock said, grabbing Watson's upper arm and turning the Gryffindor to face him. Holmes was so close to the door of the hut he could easily reach out and knock on the wood. "If…" He made a motion with his hands, making sure he was making a point and getting John's attention. "If Hagrid offers you any of his food, just be polite and don't take it, okay?" From the stories Mycroft shared, Sherlock knew to stay away from Hagrid's cooking.

John stared into his green eyes, understanding the lesson. He nodded, squeezing Sherlock's wrist. Sighing, the Ravenclaw knocked on the front door of the hut, crumbling the note in his palm and shoving it into his pocket.

Someone mumbled behind the door and thumping footsteps stomped on the floorboards. Seconds later, the door opened and Hagrid's towering figure stood before them. John sank in the shadow of the humongous man but Sherlock stood proud and tall, showing no weakness against the weather.

"Sh'rlock!" the man greeted, embracing his arms to give both of them a hug. John tried to back away but squeaked as his bones were crushed under the weight. Sherlock gave him an its‒not‒a‒crushing‒ hug‒on‒purpose look, but John could barely respond to his gesture behind Hagrid's bulky arms.

Hagrid motioned for the two boys to step inside his home. The furniture was twice the size that it normally would be, and it was specifically built to satisfy Hagrid. A gigantic boarhound dog was curled up next to a roaring fire, and three abnormally large coffee mugs where on the dining table. The whole house seemed to have five rooms squeezed into one, but it had a high level of hospitality.

The Gamekeeper faced John, not knowing who he was after being at school for two and a half months. "So, who's yer friend, Sherlock?" The younger Holmes brother threw his robes over the back of an armchair along with his tie, leaving only his favorite purple shirt to cover his chest.

John nervously glanced at his friend for help. When none came, he did what a Gryffindor was supposed to do; be brave.  _Chest up, back straight, smile on._ "Hi," he said, extending his arm out. "I'm John Watson."  _Didn't that sound familiar?_

* * *

_Two boys sitting in a field. One with short, blond hair and blazing blue eyes. The other, fluffy brown curls, high cheekbones, and a mind worth becoming a scientist._

_"_ _I'm John." His smile was so weak then. "John Watson."_

 _The grass was flattened where the one eleven_ _‒_ _year_ _‒_ _old sat with the ten_ _‒_ _year_ _‒_ _old, the younger boy's birthday weeks away. All around, the other green blades swayed behind them, sprouting taller than their shoulders. The hill looking beyond where the sun sank in the west always had freshly mowed grass so everyone could get a perfect view._

 _Before Sherlock shook his hand, he commented on how the other boy was left_ _‒_ _handed. He showed off his remarkable talent and skill, just from pencil marks and eraser sheds._

_He went to shake Sherlock's hand nonetheless, probably because he knew it was polite and proper to shake right hands. And if hadn't, he wouldn't have been introduced to the most brilliant friend he'd ever met._

* * *

His flashback was broken by a force so great it crushed his fingers. He came back to reality and tried as best as he could not to break out in tears. Hagrid let go of his hand and John sank into the nearest armchair, hiding his arm under his robes so the bearded man couldn't see.

The chair was so large John could sit crossed‒legged and his knees just scraped the arms. Sherlock gave him the 'I'm sorry' look and leaned back against the other chair with his wrists weaved between each other.

"So how's school been goin' for yeh?" Hagrid asked, proceeding to make tea from a kettle. "I he'rd yeh joined the Quidditch team, John."

John looked up and craned his neck to get a better look at the man. "How did you know about that?"

"Oh please," Sherlock said sarcastically and rolled his eyes. John turned to stare at him, his expression rather offended.

"Sh'rlock told me o' course!" Hagrid beamed, steam spilling out of the top of the teapot. It was letting out a low, faint whistle, and the water was crystal clear as it poured from the spout. "And blimey, do yeh think I'd miss a Quidditch match?" _That was stupid on my part,_ John retorted.

"Speaking of which," Sherlock announced, trying to loosen Watson's mind, "don't you have another game soon, John?"

He took a deep breath before admitting the truth. "Yeah. Friday. But I have another practice on Tuesday."

"Better be prepared then," Hagrid said, checking the tea bags and putting them back in the mugs as they weren't ready yet. "I he'rd it's goin' ter rain."  _Great,_ John thought, rolling his eyes.  _That'll just make it even more difficult to catch the Snitch._

Sherlock and John then carried on to tell Hagrid about how school was going and how they met back home in London. John started to tell him about their Patronus lessons on Saturdays, but Sherlock cut him off and shook his head as a warning. He obviously wanted to keep it as secret as possible. If any rumors spread, surely Dumbledore would be contacted and they'd all be in serious trouble.

The taste of the tea in Sherlock's mouth was burning but equally pleasant.  _Tea with a splash of honey. A few spoons of sugar._ The mug itself was as round as his head, so he had to tilt the bowl to drink like little children do to get the remainder of the milk in their cereal. He could easily slip the entirety of his hand through the handle gap, and when he'd drank as much as he could he set the mug down on the floor.

Fang, Rubeus Hagrid's dog, reluctantly got off the floor to finish what remained in Holmes's cup. He'd only drank about half of the tea, but the dog didn't seem to care and John looked quizzical.

The lion dozed off when Sherlock had an unwilling conversation about Mycroft, staring out the window at the castle just up on the hill through the square window. He noticed some dark clouds overhead so the youngest wizard tugged the fabric of Sherlock's purple shirt, indicating that they should head back to the castle.

* * *

Sherlock and John said farewell to Hagrid, thanked him for the tea, and headed back up to the school a few minutes later. "I don't mind yer comin' back any time!" Hagrid insured them, waving his saucer sized hands. John spun around to wave back.

"So why don't you show me then?" John asked, nudging the eagle in the leg.

"What?"

"Your Patronus. You claim you have been practicing, so I want to see."

"Not here," Sherlock whispered, glancing around even though no one was in sight. John felt small sprinkles from the raindrops litter his cloak, but they managed to duck under the archway of the entrance hall before buckets poured from the sky.

John swore he could've spotted a flick of silver from under Sherlock's cloak as they headed up the marble stairs for their common rooms.

* * *

The Fat Lady was slightly irritated with John for some reason when he gave her the password, as she was doing nothing but secretly napping and not doing her job. When he went to scramble through the portrait hole, he found it jammed full with students of all ages. He pushed past the crowd and found Lestrade sitting on the arm of one of the chairs by the fireplace, his head in his hands.

"What's going on?" John asked, taking off his cloak and scarf and folding them over his forearm.

"Ugh," Lestrade mumbled, letting his arms drop to his side.  _Rough life?_ Watson thought.

"There's a notice on the board. It says that the school is going to have a winter dance this year, a week before Christmas!" He sounded so disgusted.

"So? What's wrong with that?" John set his cloak on the arm right next to where Lestrade was and sat on top of it.

Greg gave him a your‒not‒serious look. "John, you do realize we're first years who barely talk to anyone. You expect us to find someone to go with a month from now?"

"Then just don't go at all," John pointed out, making the solution much simpler.

"Like that'll be any fun…"

John pondered the thought for a minute. "I know who you could go with."

"Who?"

"Molly." At the mention of Molly Hooper's name, Lestrade's eyes lit up a little brighter. "Come on, you're the guy, you have to be the one to ask her."

"We're just friends, John. You get that right…?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Lestrade, we're eleven. Do you seriously think we could be in an actual relationship at our age?" His housemate stared at the floor, both dazed and confused. "Deep down, you know what to do." John gave him the hint, but the taller Gryffindor didn't comprehend. Watson went further into the conversation, bending closer to speak softly in his ear and be the advice giver he always was. "You just have to release your inner lion."

* * *

Greg kept shooting bashful glances to Molly at lunch on Tuesday, all the while with John making his eyes go wide and opening his mouth a bit to get him to ask her. Watson kept trying to lip speak without any sound, but Lestrade found it complicated to read his mouth. It was incredibly difficult all together because while John was getting Lestrade to ask Molly, Mary Morstan batted her eyes at the blond while he ate. He could feel the blood rush up to his cheeks, as she was such a distraction from his lunch.

"Oh, me a minute." Molly excused herself from the red and gold house table and went to chat with her fellow badger Henry Knight. When she was out of earshot, Lestrade let out the deepest sigh John ever heard.

"I can't do it…"  _Likely story._

"Do what?" Sherlock came to join them before John could interject his opinion, carrying nothing in his arms since he'd just had a break from lessons.

"I told Lestrade to ask Molly to the dance, but he keeps chickening out," the shortest boy explained, keeping the story concise.

"Oh, dull."

"What, so you're not going then?" Lestrade asked, flinging a slice of an orange across his plate.

"I don't dance. I'll just keep it as simple as that."

"Well, you don't have to go to dance," Lestrade pointed out.

"Yeah. You could just go for fun." John tried to convince his friend, but Sherlock didn't act impressed.

"I have neither the interest nor time to do such thing. It clearly says in the title of the event what the purpose is, and I have no intention of dancing anytime soon."

"So, you bought your dress robes for nothing then?"  _I hadn't considered that,_ Sherlock thought. John was right.

"It would seem so," he responded, grabbing a few cucumbers and walking in the direction of the entrance hall, leaving them to their decisions.

"Go! Right now!"John went back to urging his fellow Gryffindor on. "Henry could snatch her right now if you don't budge in first."

But the ginger left Knight right after and Hooper came back to join them a few moments later, collapsing in the seat next to Greg with a smile on her face. John shot him a look but he backed out, stuffing food into his face instead.

* * *

"I just need a bit more time, okay?" Lestrade told John, moving his fingers away from the strap of his bag to defend his point. "You can't expect me to ask her now. The notice just went up a few days ago."

"Wellyeah, but if you wait too long someone else could ask her." John made the obvious statement as they headed to the dungeons for Potions class.

"Okay, so who are you going with then?" Lestrade teased, crossing his arms and shaking his head back and forth in a sassy way.

"I don't know! I have a lot of other things on my mind at the moment. Homework, Patronuses, Quidditch practice later today —"

"Oh, stop worrying about Quidditch so much," Lestrade pointed out. "I'll admit, ever since you blacked out after your first game people have been talking about it..." John sighed, his shoulders sagging and his heart sinking in his chest.

"Thanks…" he mumbled.

"But that's not the point." Greg quickly shook off John's miserable moment. "The point is you are an amazing Quidditch player. Come on, you're playing Hufflepuff on Friday. No offense to Molly, but you're going to kick their butts."

John looked up at Lestrade. "You serious?"

"Course." He thought it was a ridiculous question. Lestrade decided to add a positive remark on their discussion. "It was a nice flip you did off your broom too."John couldn't help but smirk.

"Yeah, but it hurt like hell," he added.

When they reached the correct corridor where the Potions classroom was, they found a mob of students standing around. "Why isn't anyone going in?" Lestrade asked a fellow Gryffindor. His name was Elijah, and he was one of the nicest first years in the school. He had very dark brown eyes and black hair that swept over his forehead.

Elijah pushed past a Slytherin girl with ginger hair who shoved him in the shoulder. "For some reason the door is locked. I don't even think Snape is in there."

The Gryffindors and Slytherins were separating from each other out in the hallway. John pulled out  _One Thousand Magical Herbs And Fungi_  from his bag and glared at Irene snickering across the room.

Somebody poked him in his back, and he thought it was Lestrade but knew better when an arm wrapped around his stomach. The unknown classmate's hot breath was felt in John's left ear, and he cringed at someone touching him without permission.

"Don't pass out at your next game," the drawling voice spoke, and Watson smelled Moriarty's Jasmine flowers shampoo he always used. He spun around to face the jerk as he was walking away.

Watson pulled his best concentration face mixed with hate. "What did you say to me?" Jim pivoted like a top on his feet, his mouth open in the shape of an 'O'. The touch on the Gryffindor's wrist was firm, strong with mostly muscle in the hands, and John knew Lestrade was trying to prevent him from losing his temper.

Moriarty brushed off his shoulders and then held his palms near his face. His expression showed both 'don't touch me' and 'don't mess with me.' "Back off Watson."

"No." His answer was flat and fishing. "I want to know what's your problem." A small crowd of first years was grouping around the two boys.  _Three boys if you count Lestrade, who is trying to stop me from slapping this bastard._

"You're a Muggleborn, are you not?" John looked offended, the corners of his eyes relaxing, and Lestrade's arm was diagonal on his chest now, holding his shoulder fiercely. The expression on his face morphed into puzzled.

The shorter boy's tone dropped to barely audible. "I...No," he suddenly perked up, "I'm a half‒blood."

"Oh please…"  _Don't you insult me…_

That's exactly what Jim did. "John, you're only, and only will be, half the man that I am."

John went to open his mouth, not in an angered way, but in a way that he didn't know how to respond. It was like a lightning bolt had struck his mind and he couldn't speak. It took less than a second for not Watson to react to the comment, but Greg.

"Hey!" The taller and buffer Gryffindor stepped in front of the blond, hiding him in the shadow of the candle lamps. He had one shoulder forward and his spine was stretched out to its full height, making him look like a boxing athlete. Moriarty adjusted the front of his cloak, clearly not impressed and fooled by his schoolmate.

Lestrade threw his robes onto his bag which was slumped on the stone floor. "You can pick on me all you want." He jammed his thumb right under where his heart was. "But don't bully my friends."

"Uh, do you even have any friends, Greg?"  _Crack went his knuckles clenching together._ Lestrade actually stayed quite calm. He finally turned around to continue talking with John and Elijah, and then added to Jim, "Shut it."

"Have it your way." Moriarty wasn't finished with his business. "You know you'll never be able to match up to me either."

The fire had been lit and the Gryffindor was on top of the Slytherin before John even had a chance to brush his fingertips on Lestrade's shirt collar. Greg's tough fist was connecting with Moriarty's cheek so viscously a purple bruise was already forming under his left eye. The lion had his foot on top of the serpent's right arm, forgetting that it left his dominant hand free.

Jim Moriarty's bones smashed into Lestrade's nose, the effect being blood covering the Gryffindor's chin. The taller eleven‒year‒old was on his feet in no matter of time, his pale fingers splattered with the scarlet liquid. John scooped up Lestrade's things in his arms as soon as he realized trouble was brewing and witnessed the punching incident,muttering into his friend's ear, "Come on, we're going to the hospital wing."

"What about you?" he grumbled, pinching his nose with a weird twang in his tone.

"Did you really just ask that?" John gave him the eyebrow. "I'd skip Potions any day of the week."

* * *

"What the hell happened?"

Lestrade was sitting up in the hospital wing bed, a tissue held up to his face. It was the fourth time his nose had bled that day, and Sherlock busted into the room, Molly close behind his back.

"Got into a fight," he said obviously, shaking his head in a 'no duh' way and removing the tissue from his nostrils.

"With who?" Molly asked, peeking out from behind Sherlock's arm.

"That little bastard Moriarty." Sherlock dipped his head and pulled up a chair, thinking about a month earlier when John sat in the same situation. He slid his Ravenclaw tie up and down his upper back as Molly settled at the end of the bed. There was a flash of lightning outside and rain poured down on the windows.

"What for? Did he insult us again?" Molly was terrified to ask the question, but she did anyway.

"For sticking his neck up for his friends." A new voice entered the conversation from the door of the ward. All three friends spun around to find a familiar face.

John stood in the arched doorway of the hospital wing, drenched from head to toe and still dressed in his scarlet Quidditch robes. His sandy hair stuck up in all directions, and some of the rain ran down his face.  _At least he was smart and changed his shoes,_ Sherlock noticed.

"John," Holmes started, his name coming out as a whole sigh, "you look miserable."

He did. His cheeks were pink from the chilly November air and he was shaking on his knees. John's teeth chattered in his mouth, and he looked like a sad puppy dog with his eyes. He didn't change his gaze from the floor, except when Sherlock said his name.

Lestrade broke the silence. "How was practice?"

"It sucked," John spoke the truth. "We were out there for two and a half hours, one of those hours being pouring rain, lightning everywhere, and thunder rumbling across the grounds. I swear I almost got struck twice." He raised his head to show more emotion. "I couldn't see anything. I nearly knocked out one of my own players!" He broke off with a sneeze.

"Did you catch a cold?" Lestrade frowned.

"Probably," John sniffed, shrugging off the idea like it was nothing. "So, that's why I'm debating quitting."

Even Sherlock looked startled. "What!"

"I don't think I can go on with this. It's too much work. I've still got homework to do. I just feel like I can't get everything done."

"John, you can't do that," Molly encouraged, getting up from the bed and advancing towards him. She could see the water on his face drip down from fifteen feet away. Watson rubbed his eye, feeling one droplet work its way over his eyelashes and into his blue glassy sphere. "You're such a good player. You can't just throw away your remarkable talent."

John turned his head to the side, avoiding the three faces staring at him. Hooper was now standing directly in front of him, her focus on the boy's depressed face.

_Why is she grabbing my hand…?_

"Please," she whispered, so only he could here, "don't quit. The team needs you." John looked up at her with his gorgeous eyes.  _She has nice eyes too._ "Besides," Molly put in, "we all love watching you play." He grinned.

She led him over to the bed but he didn't sit because of his wet clothes. "What do you say to some hot chocolate?" There were murmurs from the other three friends, and Sherlock's question was interrupted by another pair of footsteps approaching.

"Dear brother, do you always have to get yourself into trouble?" _Why is he here? I didn't do anything. Seriously, he needs to stay out of my personal business._

"I didn't do anything, Mycroft." The older Holmes brother carried his umbrella as usual, and he thought Sherlock's comment was an unlikely story.

"It's true," Lestrade butted in, defending the younger Holmes brother. "It was just me and John."

"Well I got the news and couldn't just ignore it," Mycroft boasted, puffing out his chest and strolling over to where the four friends were clumped together. "You know Mummy told me to watch over you closely, Sherlock."

The Ravenclaw squeezed his eyes shut tightly. "Not that closely," he grumbled, shifting his seat so he was blocked from view by John.

"If you'd like," Greg put in, "we can watch over him for you. No sweat for you."

"Don't count on it. Even if you insist. But don't let me catch you in trouble again." He stared darkly around the Gryffindors and single Hufflepuff to address his a swift brush of his shoes on the floor, Mycroft Holmes left the first years to themselves.

The mug in John's hand was warm and the liquid was the perfect temperature.  _Not too hot, not too cold._ He gave Sherlock a thumbs up for his ability to conjure drinks out of thin air. There were even four marshmallows floating on top of the dense chocolate mixture. One for each of the four puzzle pieces of their friendship.


	16. The Dancing Detective

** Chapter Sixteen **

The Dancing Detective

* * *

Sherlock spent the next few days doing homework by himself considering he wasn't fond of chatting about the winter dance with anyone. He was surprised on Thursday morning when Molly Hooper sank into the chair opposite him in the library. It was still dark outside, but the sun was just beginning to peek up over the treetops of the Forbidden Forest.

"Molly, what are you doing out of bed this early?" he asked, flipping through his notes for Transfiguration class.

"Oh, I just couldn't sleep is all," she shrugged, adjusting her grey skirt under her and brushing off her Hufflepuff badge.

"A believable excuse." Sherlock sighed, rubbing his tired eyes which had purple circles under them. Molly looked like she might hurt him if she proceeded farther into their conversation. She yawned and rested her elbows on the table, her head digging into her palms.

"Ever thought of taking extra Herbology lessons in the future, Molly? I heard you're very good." The Hufflepuff considered the remark to be silly and shook her head in disagreement.

"Where'd you hear that?" she questioned, bending over to pull out a quill and some ink from her bag.

"Considering you have two very close friends who take the same class with you, I think I'd know."  _True,_ Molly thought, remembering John and Lestrade standing by her side during their morning class together on certain days and sharing tips. She always blew them out of the water, but at least John had a vague idea of what was going on in the greenhouses. After all, his mother was a nurse and he'd studied healing plants before. Molly considered he would be a good doctor one day, helping patients with plants used for medical care.

She didn't understand why she was so interested in the study of plants and how they helped wizards in needs of peril. Although, she was a good teacher when helping Lestrade in Herbology. She was actually very pleased with the way her skills in the subject had progressed.

Molly snapped out of her daze. "Well, to answer your question, I haven't really thought about it yet. I mean, we are only eleven years old, so we have years to go."

"My brother Mycroft already knows what he plans to do once he gets out of school. I assume his dream will come true with the marks he has in his classes. He wants to be the Minister of Magic one day," Sherlock said, wiping the puzzling expression from Molly's face. "He's still got a year to go though at Hogwarts."

Molly remained deadly quiet, and Sherlock slowly raised his head to stare at her.  _Ginger hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, tired brown eyes, something is bothering her..._

"What's the real reason why you're here, Molly?" he asked in a gentle voice, laying both his arms parallel to the edge of the wooden table. It was unusual for Sherlock Holmes to be having a casual talk. She looked back at him, perplexed.  _Don't think you can get away with anything Molly Hooper..._

She let out a painful sigh yet avoided eye contact. "I wanted to ask you for some help..." Sherlock was shocked by the simple request but listened intently nonetheless. Why she came to him now, he was clueless.

"Which subject?" he asked, before she'd finished her sentence. "Because if it's Defense Against the Dark Arts, honestly you should ask John —"

"No no," she corrected, "not with any school subject." He gave her a cocked eyebrow, signally for her to continue for his confusion. "I need some help with the Patronuses."

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, one of his fingers on his mouth for the look of concentration. Molly gave him a nervous glance and swallowed. He didn't say anything for a considerable amount of time, so she argued why he should help her.

"I just can't seem to get it. I've tried all the memories possible that might be strong enough, but none have worked. John seems to be the only one who truly gets the concept of how to produce a Patronus." Sherlock still didn't say a word.

"Well, don't compliment John for everything," he replied back. "He has some faults and…weaknesses."

"So, will you help me?" Molly lifted her head bravely, forcing herself to look directly into Holmes's eyes. The brown of Molly's eyes looked determined and powerful against the calm and observant of Sherlock's green ones.

With the smallest movement he could manage, Sherlock nodded his head. Satisfied, Molly stood up and swung her bag over her shoulder, the strap running diagonally over her chest. Her footsteps halted at the corner of the bookcase leading to the library's main aisle, and she turned back around to face him again. He looked up on second thought as she wasn't finished and hadn't said a proper goodbye.

"By the way, you're coming to the Quidditch game tomorrow. I don't care what you say."  _Wow, what a powerful sentence coming from the shy girl. Getting anxious, are we Molly?_

She shuffled her feet away from where he sat, leaving him alone in his own world. The urge was too powerful to ignore, so his lip curled into a cheeky grin.  _There's no way I could skip a match. No, definitely not when John's playing._

* * *

John Watson sat in the changing tent located next to the Quidditch pitch after his second game of the season. He unbuttoned his scarlet robes and unhooked the latches on his leg protectors, relieved at how the outcome of this match was 100% better than the first. His fellow teammates had finished changing back into their school robes and headed back up to the common room for a celebration party. He said he was going to follow a little while later.

The school Snitch fluttered around in the tent, its delicate wings making itself fly over his head as he changed. John felt generous and decided to let it roam free before being shut up in the chest for hours in the dark. The outcome of the game wasn't as thrilling or easy as the Gryffindor team had expected. When playing Hufflepuff, the black and yellow brought a tough team to beat. But nevertheless, the lions had defeated the badgers.

Gryffindor had won their second game of the season by thirty points, bringing them to land in the top spot out of the four houses. Depending on the outcome of the next match, Ravenclaw versus Slytherin, it would determine Gryffindor's next opponent.

Out of nowhere, distracting John from his thoughts, something brushed up against his leg. The object wasn't solid nor liquid, and it certainly didn't feel like a gas. The slivery mist glanced his calf, and Watson progressed that it was a Patronus. If it was corporeal, he couldn't tell because the vapor swirled and died quicker than he could observe it.

Standing in the doorway of the tent, leaning against the post with a smug look on his face, was none other than Sherlock Holmes himself.

"That's some Patronus," John remarked, standing up and adjusting the waistband on his school uniform.

"Ah, not really." He replied without enthusiasm and crossed his arms just for the cool appearance. "Still not corporeal yet, but I'm working on it."

"So you have been practicing then," John said, straightening his back in order to pull his Gryffindor sweater over his head. He seemed mildly impressed.

"Well of course. I wouldn't lie to you."

"You will in the future," John assured, patting him on the shoulder and exiting the tent.

Sherlock looked mildly baffled but followed his friend out the door anyway. "No I won't," he tried to convince John.

"Yep."

"Nope."

"Oh, shut up."

Holmes snickered, thinking he had won the war, but they still argued all the way back to the marble staircase in the entrance hall.

"Remember, meet me tomorrow morning in the library?" Sherlock pointed his finger before descending to the lower levels of the castle to make sure John understood.

"Not too early," John chuckled, but gave him a thumbs up anyway. "I'm not fond of rolling out of bed early on a Saturday morning..."

* * *

The next morning, John mumbled a few curse words under his breath as the blazing sun poured onto his bed sheets. Figuring it was time to rise and shine, he clambered out of bed and searched for a jumper to throw on in what little darkness there was. He found a nice forest green one and pulled on his favorite pair of jeans, then headed out of the common room to grab some breakfast.

His Astronomy and History of Magic homework was tucked under his arm, and his leather bag held the remaining writing utensils needed. His wand was stuffed in his pants' pocket for safe keeping and just in case anything decided to attack him; though it wouldn't be much use because he only knew a handful of spells, and not very many would hold off an opponent.

A few dozen people were enjoying breakfast in the Great Hall when he arrived, and he sat by his lonesome while skimming the pages of his textbook. The various stars and planets scattered in moving images were quite soporific to John, bit he nonetheless read the information on Venus and where it was located in the solar system.

He finished his paragraph when someone very light in weight sat down on the opposite bench from him. He glanced up to see Mary Morstan's doe‒like face staring at him, and once again he felt his cheeks increasing in temperature.

"Hey John."  _She always says it in the same way. Not a hint of nervousness or anger or excitement, just the same old normal sweet way of saying hello._

 _I can tell she's trying to get my attention though..._ "Hey," the Gryffindor boy replied, taking a bite out of a piece of sausage and giving her a welcoming smile.

"Nice job in the Quidditch match yesterday," she commented, scanning the table for what would be her starting meal. Her big blue eyes told the truth, and he closed the book quietly to focus his concentration on the student he barely knew personality wise.

"Thanks!" he exclaimed, sounding excited and pleased that someone enjoyed watching him play the sport. She looked at him as if she was giving him a hint. Her eyebrow was raised and she batted her eyes at him. However, she gave up and lost interest quickly and returned to her food.

"How's Sherlock?"

"Hmm...?" Watson never expected that to slip out of her mouth anytime they were together.

"Well, I've just noticed you two hang out a lot with each other." The fact that Sherlock and John were best friends didn't seem to bother her at all.

"Oh..." He felt stupid giving that answer, but he couldn't think of anything else to say. "Well, he's been doing great. We've been working on our Patronuses together after lessons, and we've been helping each other out with homework. Just the usual stuff, I guess..."

Mary nodded her head and said, "That's good." When the upset look crossed her face, John told her some positive feedback.

"You're really good at Patronuses you know." She gave John a weak smile. "Even Sherlock said so, and that's saying something." She stopped chewing her food to stare at him, and Watson knew he'd said the right thing.

"Yeah, but you're better though." She was flat out flirting with him.

He heard Mary swallow and he shuffled his books off the table, chuckling and thanking her. Grabbing a piece of toast and winking at Morstan, he turned to go but stopped in his tracks. The nervousness was swept from him as he lengthened his spine and let out a sigh. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure," Mary offered. "Anything at all."

A few minutes later, John gathered up his homework and bid Mary good day. She thanked him for the lovely conversation which resulted in him giving her a small salute goodbye. He sneakily snatched up another piece of toast before heading for the library, and she giggled at his behavior. Then John's mind abruptly switched to Sherlock.  _He's probably been waiting for a long time. Knowing Sherlock, he's been up since sunrise._

John felt like a weight was lifted off his chest. He'd finally asked Mary what he'd been wanting to for a few weeks now, and he felt more comfortable talking with her now. She was a very sweet eleven‒year‒old; besides the stunning blue eyes, she was a very funny girl and loved to smile at every available opportunity.

_And now I have a partner to the winter dance._

* * *

John knew the librarian would surely yell at him if he even stepped one toe in the library with food, so he swallowed the last bit of toasted bread and brushed the crumbs off on his jeans. The library wasn't just the normal volume quite, it was deadly quite. There wasn't a peep coming from anyone's mouth, and not even the rustle of pages was heard through the bookshelves. John found this remarkably odd but headed to the back of the shelves in search for his friend.

The curly‒haired Ravenclaw was tucked in the back corner as usual, minding his own business with his nose buried in a book Watson didn't recognize. His black robes were nowhere in sight, and instead he wore a black suit with his blue and bronze tie draped over his shoulders. He didn't stir or flinch when John came to join him until his eyes finished scanning the letters jumbled on the page.

Sherlock marked his spot in his novel and slid the book across the table. He acted as if John had been there the entire time, but addressed the Gryffindor in a typical starter conversation. "Hello, John." The shorter boy responded the same way with swapped names and hastily poured his homework out over the table top. Sherlock grunted as he pulled out his Astronomy homework, not turned on in the slightest at the history of the solar system.

"Shall we?" John asked, looking at the homework like it was dirt.

"Better now than later."

* * *

"Sherlock…" There was no answer, just his light breathing and the faint crinkle of paper.

"Sherlock…Sherlock!" The older first year growled and sluggishly opened his eyes. His head was resting on the spine of his textbook and a small drop of drool ran down his cheek. John's face tilted to come in line with his, and Sherlock wiped away the liquid on his face with his blazer sleeve.

"Bored much?" John teased, sitting up again and packing his homework away.

"Can we stop talking about how Mars is the planet of war now?" Sherlock groaned, propping up onto his elbow. "I'm really not interested."

John laughed. "I thought you loved to learn? Well, if you wish. Besides, we've got other things we can talk about."

Sherlock was undoubtedly relieved inside as he carelessly chucked his books back into his bag. His crowded and scientific brain never hooked onto learning knowledge on galaxies and stars, as there were multiple subjects that were far more important to getting a successful job in the near future. He said his next thought out loud, but John wasn't entirely paying attention.

"I only prefer to jam information that matters into my mind rather than rubbish." The eagle lounged back in his chair, crossing one knee over the other with his arms dangling at his sides.

"So…" John leaned forward with his elbows on the table, lightly tapping his wand on the edge. The end sent off tiny green sparks, but John ignored them completely.

"So what?"

"You still debating about going to the winter dance?" The Gryffindor was now drawing circles on the surface, his hand shaking ever so slightly.

Sherlock sighed and folded his hands in his lap.  _Not the winter dance again…_  "I haven't given it much thought. Like I said before, John, I don't dance."

"Yes, I'm aware of that, but why not just go for fun? You don't have to dance. You could just stand and watch."

"From the way you're speaking, you must be going." John dipped his head as he was caught, and he dreaded what Holmes would think when he announced who he was going with. He bit his lip and nodded, eyes closed. Sherlock's mouth was open as he tilted his head back, and the words came out as his neck straightened again. "Okay, who are you going with then?"

John shifted his position in the chair and slipped his wand back into his pocket. Hoping Sherlock wouldn't flip out, he said his partner's name out loud. "Mary Morstan."

Surprisingly, Sherlock didn't disapprove of John's choice selection. Sherlock always appreciated the way Mary worked extra hard during their Patronus lessons, and she had nice manners and thanked him after each practice session. In fact, he bowed his head and his neck cracked, informing John his partner was a good choice with a smug smile. "I'm surprised you could claim her this late. I thought at least someone would have asked her by now."

"Same." There was another endless silence before the blond spoke up again. "Please come." John stared at his friend with pleading eyes and leaned inwards.  _He's not going to let me get out of this one…_ "I promise, you won't have to dance if you don't want to. Mary even said she has a friend named Sarah Sawyer if you'd like to go with her. Otherwise, just come and watch. Besides, you never know what might happen…"

One end of the Ravenclaw's lips curled up towards the ceiling, and the glossy surfaces of his teeth were mildly visible in the depths of his mouth. When he didn't respond, John asked a question.

"So, is that a yes…?"

"As long as I don't have to watch people dancing like silly human beings or snogging in the middle of the dance floor…" John couldn't help but laugh silently, making his shoulders shake up and down.

"And I think I'll just go alone," Sherlock continued, not wanting to have to deal with a girl for an entire night. "Mycroft is probably going to go just to spy on people."

"Alright. I suppose Sarah will go anyway, but I'll let Mary know later today. And no, you won't have to watch people…doing things."  _Watson, why are you so awkward?_ he told himself. "But," John ejected abruptly, pointing his finger in the direction of Sherlock's nose, "you are getting a photograph with me. And maybe one with you, me, Lestrade, Molly, and Mary," he finished, giving his friend the 'don't argue' eyebrow.

Sherlock argued anyway. "I hate taking photos. None of them ever come out well…"

John stood up and swung his bag strap onto his shoulder bone. Smirking, he teased, "Too bad." Before he disappeared down the library hall, Holmes yelled out to him.

"Hey, John...Thanks."

"For what?"

"Helping me." His mouth formed a real smile, and the lion smiled back in a 'you're welcome' gesture.

John shuffled his feet and blushed; he could feel it in his cheeks. Strangely, he waved with the tips of his fingers. "See you later," he assured nervously. The sandy‒haired boy grinned at his brilliance and bravery. After only a few hours into the day, he'd accomplished two tasks.

_Two dance invitations complete. All I have to do is get Lestrade to ask Molly. And conjure a Patronus later today._

* * *

Lestrade breathed in heavy gasps as he ran along the corridors, knowing he was late for their weekly Patronus lesson. As he sprinted, his fumbling hands attempted to stuff his tie into his bag. He'd dozed off in the Gryffindor common room and lost track of time, bringing his bag with him considering he wasn't going to waste a few precious moments to put it on his four poster bed upstairs.

His feet took him around the corner and he found himself in a deserted corridor. The stone wall to his left was blank, and he concentrated on what he wanted.  _I need the place where my friends and I practice Patronuses. I need the place where my friends and I practice Patronuses..._

Without opening his eyes, he heard a rustle and cracking of iron on stone, and he knew the door had appeared and his pleading thoughts worked. Rushing forward, his muscular fingers gripped the door handle and pushed it open.

Molly's swirling incorporeal Patronus faded and died as she turned to see who had opened the door. Mary was giggling at her instructor's random analogy, and Sherlock's hand was inches from her shoulder, giving her instructions. All four heads craned around to catch Lestrade walking in the door, and he closed it foolishly behind him.

"Sorry," he mumbled, nodding his head to all of them. "I lost track of time."

Sherlock saved him from the lingering, disturbed silence. "Well, glad you could join us, Lestrade! Come practice, we only have twenty minutes left, so hop to it." Greg was eager to jump on it, so he slid his bag across the floor into the corner and went over to join John.

His fellow lion gave Lestrade a small smile as the taller Gryffindor joined him. Watson cleared his mind completely and focused only on his happy memory, trying his best to brush off Mary's prissiness. When it filled him inside so much he couldn't help but show it on the outside before it would burst, he shouted, " _Expecto patronum!"_

Instead of his Patronus orbiting around the tip of his wand, the sparkles wove in and out of each other, twisting and forming the shape of his protector. John braced both his hands on his wand as his mouth fell agape at the new form of his Patronus.

The sphere of mist expanded to form the torso of an animal, which sprouted four long legs. A long, bushy tail rested just below the kneecaps on its hind legs, and small fluffy hairs were visible on its back. A long snout with a round nose grew out of the forming head while two identical ears poked out of the skull.

The animal's long, sharp claws hit the floor as it pranced around gracefully yet made no noise in the room. It ran in circles around John's standing body, and he couldn't help but see how beautiful the creature was. Greg had stopped to stare as well, like he'd just mistaken the fuzzy animal for a foreign species.

The blue swirls traveled up to form its eyes, and they resembled the same color of John's. The top of the wolf's head came up to his hip height, and it pawed the ground in front of its producer loyally. Before John reached out far enough to stroke the Patronus, it trotted away over to where Sherlock stood.

The white wolf stood on its hind legs, brushing up against Holmes's leg with its tongue out. The dog sprinted around Morstan, stopping in front of her and sitting. Sherlock gazed from the wolf to John, and when the blond caught his friend's eyes, the fluffy, wild beast faded and vanished.

The attention on John was quickly drowned away as Molly let out a shriek from her corner of the room. She jumped back violently as a large silvery swan erupted from the tip of her wand, spreading its great wings and flying around the ceiling lamps.

"Keep your concentration, Molly! That's excellent!" Sherlock complimented her, and she in fact stayed focused on her spell.

John gathered back his powerful thoughts and conjured his corporeal Patronus again. " _Expecto patronum!"_  he said, pointing his wand at Hooper. The wolf bolted out of the end of his wand, running around the Hufflepuff girl and barking silently for the swan to join it. The dark blue spots around the swan's pupils spotted the wolf on the ground, and Molly's Patronus flew to dive.

The five first years stood watching the swan circling the wolf and flying through its legs as it ran around the two spell casters. John had to duck eventually as the swan almost passed straight through his head. Watson's wolf jumped up to try and follow Molly's Patronus into the air, and the swan disappeared as it hit the chandelier. John lost concentration on his thought and his wolf too faded as it skipped in his direction.

* * *

"No no, come on. You have to do it now." Sherlock was pushing Lestrade's back in the direction of Molly and her fellow first year Hufflepuff girls, but Greg was trying to restrain against the Ravenclaw. Sherlock pushed the black‒haired boy a few feet away but the Gryffindor spun around to face him. Lestrade tried to protest but the eagle interrupted before he backed out.

"No, listen, if you don't do it now, Molly could already be taken. Go. Go!" Sherlock ordered. Lestrade brushed off the front of his Hogwarts robes and tightened his tie around his neck. He took a deep breath and headed off towards Molly Hooper. The Ravenclaw remained where he was under a tree on the grounds, turning his long black coat collar up against the early December air.

From a long way away, Lestrade was undoubtedly nervous and had a hard time asking her to the dance. Sherlock could tell he tried to back out of the conversation multiple times, but in the end Molly waved goodbye and Lestrade did a little fist pump to himself.

"See, I told you it wasn't that hard, was it?" Sherlock grinned as the Gryffindor came within earshot.

"Oh, shut up," Lestrade argued, but had to show his cheeky grin too. Their feet crunched on the frost covered grass as tiny snowflakes began to fall for the first time since they'd been at Hogwarts. They each had flurries stuck in their hair that melted when they entered the castle's main hall, and they headed up the marble stairs to meet John at their Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson.

* * *

Over the next few weeks, snow began to fall more heavily over the grounds, and within a few days of the winter dance there was at least two feet of the white blanket outside. The flakes on the roof of Hogwarts froze and turned to ice, and Hagrid's cabin looked like a frosted cake on the edge of the forest. Students were frantically running around last minute trying to find dance partners, and the corridors had been decorated festively for the holidays. Five girls tried to ask Lestrade to the dance, and he felt miserable having to reject all of their proposals. John also got a request, and so did Molly for the matter. She seemed very popular and people seemed to realize a little too late how pretty she really was in terms of looks.

John walked into the Great Hall talking with Lestrade one morning to find the place entirely renovated with Christmas crafts. Twelve Christmas trees almost as tall as the arching walls stood on both sides of the hall, decorated with glass balls the colors of the Hogwarts houses and candy canes. Tinsel hung down from their branches, and gold stars were on top of each pine tree.

On both sides of the hall where the fireplaces were, wreaths the height of Sherlock hung on nails, and the bewitched ceiling let snowflakes fall down below. Gingerbread cookies were in dishes for snacking on as desserts, and streamers lined the edge of the staff table. John sat down on the Gryffindor table bench and pulled the platter of sausage towards him. Even the ghosts went around the halls singing Christmas carols.

"Well, they certainly love the holidays don't they?" Lestrade beamed, tucking the bottom of his white shirt under his sweater. John looked up at the ceiling to see tiny leaves of mistletoe dangling under the floating candles. Boughs of holly were scattered around the large platters and bowls on the house tables, making the school incredibly jolly.

"Why not?" John asked, taking the first bite of his breakfast. "I love the holidays," he continued after swallowing. "Especially Christmas. It's just so cheerful and you get to spend time with everyone."

"Hello boys!"

"Molly!" The Hufflepuff fell into the seat next to John with a smile on her face. "Did you see the icicles near the grand staircase?" she questioned excitedly.

"No! Blimey, how could we have missed them?" Lestrade seemed baffled and paused for a moment. Then, jumping up without another word, he left the Great Hall to search for them eagerly.

"Mail's here," John pointed out, hearing the familiar swoosh of hundreds of owl wings above all the students. In all sizes and colors, brown, black, white, tan, big, and small, the owls flew over the heads of the kids, dropping letters and newspapers and gifts from family members. John wasn't surprised when nothing dropped down on his plate, but Molly received a copy of the wizarding newspaper  _The Daily Prophet_ to read.

"You actually read that garbage?" Sherlock had joined the lot, sinking onto the bench across from them with Greg just over his shoulder, criticizing the paper.

"What do you mean?" Molly flattened out the front article and grabbed her goblet full of milk.

"None of that stuff is true. Ever since Cornelius Fudge became the Minister, most of the news is made up or fake. I say the Ministry should fire him."

"Sherlock!" Lestrade almost roared, elbowing him in the ribs. Molly snorted into her drink and John shuffled a hand through his flyaway hair.

"What do you say we take a walk outside?" John suggested, cutting off the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor before the fight broke out.

"I left my gloves up in Gryffindor Tower," Lestrade explained, but John simply informed him to stick them in his pockets if he started to get frostbite. The four friends rose from the Gryffindor table and bundled up in their school hats and scarves.

The biting temperature hit John's face quicker than he'd completely stepped outside. He stuffed his fists into a pair of gloves he'd brought down to breakfast with him, bending his face over against the ice cold wind. Smoke billowed from the chimney in Hagrid's hut, and the surface of the Black Lake was frozen solid in a white mix.

John felt something hard slap across his thigh, and turned to see Lestrade grinning with a snowball in his grasp. "Oh, no you don't!" Watson shouted back, fetching up a small mound of the white fluffy substance and throwing it back. Molly joined in by also chucking snow at the buffer Gryffindor, and Sherlock tried to dodge an incoming snowball thrown by John.

When they walked back into the entrance hall thirty minutes later, their cheeks were almost as pink as flamingos and their fingers almost glued together. John peeled his scarlet and gold hat from his skull, revealing a head full of messy blond hair and blushing ears. His hair was damp and it stuck up a few inches in the back. He pushed the front locks over his forehead and felt Holmes attempting to flatten the ruffles in the back.

Even Sherlock couldn't help but realize how much fun he had.  _Pink cheeks, wet stains from where the snowballs came in contact with our robes, white fingers, signs of snowflakes around and in my curls._

_What more fun can you have in the snow?_

* * *

The school was abuzz with social opinions on the afternoon of the winter dance, and some girls were seen leaving early Sunday afternoon to prepare for the event.

"Seriously, what do they think this is, a wedding?" Sherlock grumbled at the number of packs of girls heading up the marble staircase to the Ravenclaw common room. Someone tapped him suddenly on the shoulder and he turned to see an older Slytherin girl skidding in front of him.

"Yes?" Sherlock asked, trying to act as politely as possible.

John stood and watched as the Slytherin seemed to be pleading Sherlock for something. Eventually, he shouted at her and she bolted off in the direction of the Great Hall. Watson gave him a 'what was that for?' look, and Sherlock rolled his eyes in annoyance.

"She wanted to know if I could go to the dance with her. I simply said no, but she refused to listen!" John sighed at his socially awkward friend but guided him up to Gryffindor Tower all the while.

"You didn't have to shake her off like that though," John informed him, heading up the moving stairs to the seventh floor. "Girls are delicate sometimes. You go too far, they can almost break as easily as a toothpick sometimes…" Sherlock never paid any attention to woman, as they were not really his area, so he never knew how to act around them.

"You can come chill out in my common room for now, until the dance that is. I think Lestrade said Molly was coming too." The shorter boy halted in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady, gave her the password, and she swung open for the two buddies.

John let Sherlock crawl into the portrait hole before him, and the eagle was introduced to the Gryffindor common room for the first time. John sank into one of the plushy armchairs by the blazing fire, bending over to warm his hands. He motioned for Sherlock to sit down next to him, and the Ravenclaw sat as far away from the study tables as possible, curled up on the floor in the corner. He made sure his back was to the window so he could observe his surroundings in depth.

"So, you plan on still going alone then?" John wanted to confirm the statement before heading off to the dance later. His question was answered with one word.

"Yes."

"Hey, freak."  _John, don't._ His knuckles had contracted into a hidden fist.

"Hey, Sally." Watson spoke before Holmes could, forcefully keeping his anger to himself. "Getting ready for the dance are you?"

"I was thinking about it, yeah." She sounded so matter‒of‒fact and proud that she was going in the first place.

"I suppose you're going with Anderson then?" Sherlock said smugly, looking up from his seat to gaze at her tan face. She decided not to take the risk to mess with him and started to walk away.

"See you two later."

Greg and Molly didn't show up for another hour, and when they did the four friend discussed classes, homework, and what they thought would happen that night. Hooper announced around five o'clock that she was going to get ready, and Lestrade smiled at her as she left.

John watched Sherlock from the seat diagonally away. The brunette was warming his hands almost dangerously close to the flames, making sure they didn't lose feeling and turn white. After a short while, he broke the silence as a group of teenage boys passed them to head up to their dormitory.

"Everything okay?" There was no response.

Watson got up and sat in the chair Holmes was stationed in front of. The Ravenclaw felt the lion's tough hand grasp his shoulder bone, and John repeated his soothing words in Sherlock's ear.

The older boy nodded, reaching up with his own hand to clamp onto the blond's. John bent over so Sherlock could see his cheek out of his peripheral vision. "If you need anything, I'm here to help."

Their tender moment was broken when Lestrade dropped onto the couch next to them. He coughed, undoubtedly trying to be his usual self and grab attention.

"I don't get it," Sherlock flipped out, grabbing clusters of his hair and twisting his spine so it cracked gleefully. John was thrown away rather freshly and avoided getting slapped by his friend. "The dance doesn't start for another two hours! Why do people insist on getting ready this early?"

John didn't know how to respond, so Lestrade commented for him. "Girls will be girls."

* * *

Sherlock didn't head down to the Ravenclaw common room until forty‒five minutes were left, making entertaining deductions about passing fifth year nerds as he went by. Watson turned to Greg and he got the message. Both Gryffindor boys headed up to get changed into their dress robes.

Their fellow eleven‒year‒old roommates Elijah, Gale, and Skyler decided to change in the bathroom down the hall, and Lestrade also left to let John change on his own in their bedroom. One by one, John swapped his lounge clothes for the separate parts of his dress robes, slipping some bits of cloth over his head, through his arms, and over his hips.

He pulled his black vest on to cover his chest, weaving the gold buttons through their holes. He strolled to the opposite side of his mattress, examining himself in the mirror. The ends of his white long‒sleeved, buttoned shirt were rolled back a few folds, and his collar was flat on the top of his pitch‒black vest. His dress pants were perfect length, covering his ankle bones. Black shiny shoes protected his feet, which were the same shade as his pants. Watson secured the tie pin to his shirt, flattening the silk all the way pressed against his stomach.

He added the final touch to his outfit, the dress robes themselves, and adjusted the hooks under his ribs to a comfortable position. He picked off a thin hair from the edge of the black trim, thinking Sherlock's choice of the navy blue robes suited him perfectly. He straightened his chest to look more proud.  _I can't deny I look a little older than I am, but hey, I look pretty good!_

There was a click from the door of their dormitory and Lestrade shuffled around the corner, his focus fixed on the floor. When his head lifted and spotted John, the blank expression on his face morphed into a teeth baring smile. "Look at you!" he beamed, slinging his school robes over his arm and throwing his hanger onto his four‒poster bed. John bent his head over bashfully as his robes swished at the hem when he spun. Greg walked around the furnace in the middle of the heated room to join John at the mirror. "Don't you look handsome?"

"Oh, don't rub it in…Besides, you're not so bad yourself." Lestrade didn't quite agree, but he did look quite spiffy in his black and white dress robes. His outfit almost matched Sherlock's entirely, minus the green trim and black bow tie. Lestrade's accessory was white instead.

"Come on," the taller boy beckoned. "We should start heading down." John thanked him as he held the door aloft for him. "You know, Mary's got one lucky dance partner," Lestrade added, punching John on the upper arm.

"You can stop any time now," John almost whispered as they headed down the hall and through the magical portrait hole.

* * *

John and Lestrade knew they had quite a few minutes left when they reached the entrance hall, which they found jam packed with students of all ages. It was almost mentally impossible to pick out their friends and partners in the crowd, but Lestrade found Sherlock slouching on the wall to their left.

"Hello Sherlock!" Lestrade greeted, folding his hands behind his back. Holmes found it polite so he stood up all the way and held one arm across his ribs like a gentleman. "Have you seen Molly?"

"I have not."  _He even bowed his head. That's the calmest I've heard him speak before._ John grinned, impressed at how his best friend was doing his most to act polite and professional.

John noticed his outfit wasn't completely finished.  _His collar isn't complete..._ "Sherlock, you forgot to tie your bow tie."

"Do I have to, John?" he complained, backing away before his friend's hands came in contact with his neck.

"I did," Lestrade pointed to his white one, and John wasn't going to let Sherlock get away with it. He reached up and tied it for him, tucking it under his shirt collar and straightening it out.  _Maybe he didn't know how to tie a bow tie…Stupid me,_ he remarked.  _Sherlock Holmes knows everything._

John felt a tap on his shoulder by a skinny finger and turned to see his dance partner standing behind him. Mary wore a short, black dress that came down and was knee length, and tiny sparkles were draping in a curved line down to her waist. Her friend Sarah Sawyer was with her in a long red dress, flowers pinned to the right sleeve.

"Hello," John said stuttering, and he offered the ladies to join their group. He was shocked at how polite Sherlock was to both Mary and Sarah, and the brunette started up a conversation with the brown‒haired girl.

"Where's Molly?" John asked, leaning in to whisper at Lestrade.

"I don't know, she should be —"

He was cut off as Molly Hooper came pushing through the crowd. She was easy to spot among the mass of black and dark colors, because she had on a sunny yellow dress. It was the same length as Mary's, but crossed in a pattern around her chest area. Her black flats had cute bows to match the one in her ginger hair, which she tied back in a loose braid.

"Molly, you look gorgeous!" Mary complimented before her partner could, as he was frozen staring with his mouth open. John snapped his fingers in front of Lestrade's nose to bring him back to the real world.

"Oh, thank you!" she stumbled, pulling up the strap of her dress.

Coming from the doors of the Great Hall, silver bells echoed their peaceful ring out to the entrance hall. The students gossiped to each other excitedly as couples headed into the dining area, preparing for the dance. John checked his watch and sure enough, the time was 19:03.

Lestrade cleared his throat and made the first move, even though he was the last to have a partner. "Shall we?" He offered Molly his arm, and she blushed before he swept her away. Greg grinned at the smaller lion before swaying away, winking and indicating that John could accompany a girl with ease. Sherlock pointed for Sarah to walk ahead of him, and they easily chatted away about their days in school and how the eagle made deductions about people. Watson chuckled as they strode away together, glad his best friend had hooked up with someone.

John smiled at Mary, hooking his palm onto his hip. She slid her delicate arm through the hole and they proceeded to the hall arm in arm. Several groups of people stared as they glided by, whispering if they really were first years or not.

The Great Hall had been completely redecorated for the occasion and was mostly glinting with a silver and blue light. The twelve Christmas trees were layered in frost, and snow fell lightly from the ceiling. One monstrous tree three times the size of the regular ones was stacked in the middle of the hall towards the back, and gold and silver glass balls hung from the branches.

At least four ice sculptures were stationed at the corners of the dance floor with benches circling them. Extra seats lined the walls with green squashy cushions, and two bars were on either side of the great oak doors containing alcohol‒free refreshments. A long table at the back of the hall was in front of an orchestra, and plates filled with healthy snacks and cookies were set up for eating.

The dance floor covered three‒quarters of the wooden floor, and it resembled ice. When in fact people stepped onto it, no one slipped, as it had been bewitched to feel like stone under the soles of shoes. A few older couples and pairings of teachers were positioned to start off the event, and soon Albus Dumbledore raised his arms to silence them all. The crowd backed away from the floor and stood near the sides of the room, giving the headmaster their attention.

Professor Flitwick stood on a stack of Christmas carol music books and raised a director's baton to conduct the orchestra. A stereo was also set up to play extra music later, music that most Muggles would know. Hogwarts made it fair by playing known music in the outside world for a party after the luscious notes of instrumental pieces.

The instruments strummed up a flowing melody, one cheerful enough to let the kids glide through the dance floor smoothly and with skill. The violins played sweet notes while the cellos and violas backed up with a harmony. A piano was heard in the background of the strings, along with some flutes and a harp.

The staff members turned to face their partners, then joined hands and began waltzing around the dance floor festively. John watched Professor Dumbledore and McGonagall sweep past him and Mary, and the students let the teachers dance for a few measures before the teenagers stepped onto the floor.

As far as John could tell, Lestrade was the first eleven‒year‒old to pull Molly out with him, and she tried to pull him back. She lost as they entered the stage, and Greg carefully rested his hand on her waist and grabbed her hand. Hooper joined in by following his lead, every so often glancing down at her feet to make sure she was doing the steps the right way. John gave Lestrade a wink as they faded into the middle of the crowd.

Sherlock however, was frowning at a specific couple on the edge of the floor across from him. Not because he wasn't enjoying himself, but because he despised both human beings. Moriarty, whenever he got the chance, would sneer at him and Irene tried to convince Holmes to dance with her using her eyes.

Sherlock changed his stare as he saw a figure in navy blue dress robes pass him, accompanying a girl with short, blonde hair.  _I'm happy for John. Mary's a wonderful young girl, and John's lucky he's got her._

Sarah went off to dance with a Slytherin Sherlock didn't know, so he stood watching the various couples stride in circles. He laughed to himself as John was struggling to lead Mary, and grinned as Lestrade was having too much fun with Molly.  _He's really making her open up and come out of her shell._ She was giggling freely and spinning in circles under his arm, and Greg was basically making a fool of himself and being a clown.

When the waltz ended, John took Mary's hand and stepped off the dance floor, breathing heavily because of his nervousness. Lestrade stayed with Molly out on the floor as the band played up a more upbeat song, twirling her around so her dress flew out from her in even waves.

"I'm going to go to the bathroom. I'll be right back, okay?" Mary told John, and he nodded. She left him standing watching the crowd, but he lost interest and swiveled to examine the nearest ice sculpture instead. It was clearly a snowflake, and he lounged back on one of the open seats. Preoccupying himself, he picked some more hairs off his dress pants.

There was a loud applause from the dancers as the skippy music ended abruptly on a sudden note. The mob around the edge of the dance floor was starting to clear off as students added to the dancing session or left to get air out in the entrance hall, so John had a clear view of Lestrade and Molly. The sight of their closeness made him feel joyful.

"Don't have a partner Watson? Shame…" Moriarty taunted him as he led Irene from the hall. Her tight black dress matched the polished heels she wore, and she definitely was wearing too much eye makeup.

Before the nasty Slytherins were gone, Moriarty made John feel down as he announced the expensive maker of his dress robes. "Westwood," he gloated, winking evilly. The Gryffindor watched them all the way until they were out of sight, a frown crossing his face and eyebrows contracted.

"Excuse me?"  _I know that voice…A hint of deepness starting to develop in the lungs, sharpness in every syllable, even when his mouth is flying at a hundred miles_   _an hour._

John snapped his neck around to see Sherlock's towering figure standing over his hunched back. His black robes were free of all fuzz balls and hairs, and the dark forest green trim lining his cloak brought out the color of his eyes.

The blurred music behind his back faded into a slow tune John recognized from hearing on the radio back home. Sherlock bit his lip and John sat up against the back of the board supporting the ice figure. The sharp cheekbones collected a hint of scarlet, and the lion saw his best friend swallow. The smile tugging on John's lips grew before his friend said anymore.

Sherlock's arm slowly floated out to stop a foot from John's face, palm up, veins blue in his long skinny fingers.

"May I have this dance?"


	17. The Christmas Scarf

** Chapter Seventeen **

The Christmas Scarf

* * *

"W _hen I look into your eyes, it's like watching the night sky, or a beautiful sunrise, well there's so much they hold."_

The first verse of the song filled the hall with its swinging musicality, a guitar dinging notes as one continuous beat. There were clinks of teacups from the surrounding counters and scrapes as shoes rubbed up against the floor. Couples changed their movements to sway along with the melody instead of acting like lunatics.

Watson licked his lips and glanced around, hopeful that nobody was watching them. Mary still hadn't returned from the restrooms, and Lestrade and Molly surely were probably still dancing. Praying that no students would start to get ideas, John bowed his head and smiled at the request. Then he extended his hand, magnetizing his palm with Sherlock's and feeling the smoothness of his skin press on his fingertips.

"I'd love to," he accepted, and Sherlock helped him up off the bench. They walked together over to the mob of dancers, their elbows a few inches apart. John stopped at the edge of the floor, leaning back to whisper in Sherlock's ear as he bent forward.

"I thought you'd never ask," he admitted, and a bowed head was the gesture he received in return. Since Sherlock had watched during the first part of the occasion, John made the appropriate move and took a step forward, offering his hand for his partner to come and follow. Pivoting on his heel, he reached out his arm to Sherlock and grinned, not nervous at all when three girls snickered nearby.

 _He's making this like a public announcement,_ Sherlock noticed, but he found his hand connecting to John's without permission. His brain waves hadn't completely translated the message altogether, but his body took over for him and the shorter boy led him out between two groups.

They stood facing each other for a few drawn‒out moments as the music blended into a swaying chorus, debating in their minds how this was supposed to work with two males. Deciding what was the best place to start, Sherlock grasped John's hand in his and lifted them to his ribs height, and the shorter boy in the blue dress robes made to move his other arm but was stopped suddenly.

"No no no," Sherlock exclaimed, and John looked up at him in a 'I beg your pardon' look. "Your arm goes on my shoulder."

 _Wait,_ John thought, finding this interesting and ridiculous at once.  _Is he telling me what to do? Sherlock Holmes, a dancer? He doesn't even know how to act when doing this kind of stuff…_

And then it clicked in John's brain and he tilted his head up at the Ravenclaw in an understatement. "Oh I see, so I'm the 'girl' then?"

"Precisely," Holmes smiled, forcing the lion's left arm to rest on his shoulder blade. It did seem to make sense, considering John was about five inches shorter than the taller boy. That was just how it worked when at a school dance. Unless it was that one case that the girl was taller, that which just makes the situation even more awkward.

John watched Sherlock clean his teeth behind his mouth with his tongue, and realized the eagle was staring at something close to the floor. The blond's eye contact flew to his friend's frozen hand, hovering half a foot away from John's own hip. Watson removed the hand that was glued to Sherlock's shoulder to slowly progress Holmes's right hand onto the slight bump in his side that was a result of his bone structure.

Watson could tell Sherlock was applying pressure back on his own hand, avoiding further contact on his body. He raised his eyebrow at Holmes and told him the truth. "You were the one who offered me to dance in the first place, so you just have to deal."

Holmes looked caught but unleashed some of the force from his palm, letting John push it for him. His fingers bent to hook around John's waist, and the athlete returned his free hand to Sherlock's collar.

When the brunette didn't move, John tried to hint his next move by flashing his eyes. His fingers slid over the soft fabric of Sherlock's dress robes and traced the forest green trim. The brunette still didn't get what he was supposed to do. John gave up trying and told him with words instead from his lips. "The gentleman is supposed to lead," he inquired, tapping his finger in a sort of way to inform his friend that he was waiting. Holmes rolled his eyes, secretly judging the way his dancer was being a smart aleck.

Taking the first‒time experience one step at a time, Sherlock let his dominant foot slide to his right, guiding Watson in his arms. He sighed, feeling stupid as John glanced down at the floor, checking to make sure his movements were following his friend's rhythm. However, the Gryffindor wouldn't have been able to tell that it was his first time from far away. It seemed to come naturally to him, and that was just odd in terms of Sherlock Holmes.

They passed a couple who were at least three years older in age, who also gave them an almost amused look. John didn't see why it was funny; he'd spotted two girls dancing together earlier. Why did two guys make it any different?

" _I won't give up on us, even if the skies get rough, I'm giving you all my love, I'm still looking up."_

John tried to nervously bow his head lower into the crowd as he spotted Mary galloping back into the hall, noticing he had vanished.

" _Cause even the stars they burn, some even fall to the earth, we've got a lot to learn, God knows we're worth it. No I won't give up."_

The shorter dancer suddenly felt a light tap on his shoulder, and Sherlock made a sort of hissing noise with his cheeks. "What?" John grumbled back, disappointed that Holmes interrupted the beautiful song. He briefly craned his neck at the spot Sherlock had poked him.

"Do you find it suspicious that the student over in that corner is spying on people from under his coat collar?"

 _What?_ John never expected such a thing to escape from his mouth at that time. Of all things, while they were dancing and listening to the soft notes fill their ears, Holmes was indicating an older student.

"What?" John repeated himself, but this time his tone was in a 'you're‒not‒serious' tone rather than a 'what Sherlock?' sort of voice. He felt Sherlock's hand swivel his hips around to face the direction the Ravenclaw was moments ago, and the taller kid flashed his eyes at the boy over his shoulder. John had to stand on his tiptoes, but it was enough to give him an available view.

There was indeed a boy of about five foot ten in height skulking in the shadows, hiding his face from the gaze of the mob. His eyes were almond‒shaped and a frightening shade of brown, and his normally spiky hair was slicked with hair gel on the top of his head.

"And this is suspicious, how?" John asked, lost.

"He's avoiding eye contact with anyone." Holmes stated the fact, keeping his voice in a whisper so no one could hear. The words in the swaying song briskly faded in and out of hearing as they tried to play along with everyone else, hopefully not looking skeptical themselves. "Ever notice once in a while he's checking the insides of his robes?" John didn't have time to say no because his friend's lips were moving at lightning speed. "He's protecting something. Clearly he doesn't want anyone to know. That also adds to the fact that he doesn't want to be here. His dress robes are too tight around the wrists and he's been there ever since the dance started."

"You've been so into the unsocial boy that you haven't even realized your brother is sitting ten feet from him." Watson felt a lurch in his back after his comment as Sherlock did a quarter turn, indeed deducting that Mycroft was sitting with his spine perfectly straight and his umbrella hooked over his forearm, occasionally giving the protectively sulky boy a sneer.

Sherlock let his arms fall to his sides and he nudged his way out of the crowd, heading in the direction of the entrance to the Great Hall. "Why would I care?" he chimed in, his dress robes flinging to his side as he checked the time on his gold pocket watch. He was standing directly between two ice sculptures when John caught up to him and grabbed his upper arm, ordering him to turn and look him in the face.

"You should care, Sherlock!" John whispered in a hiss, and there was a pause as the music boiled up into the last verse.

" _I won't give up on us, even if the skies get rough, I'm giving you all my love, I'm still looking up."_

Sherlock scrunched up his face and lazily breathed out a heavy sigh. "John," he said, getting his attention with a swift slice of his hand through the air, "it's Mycroft. He's sixteen, he can deal with his own…self," he settled, making himself avoid blurting out a nasty word.

"Apple cider?" The change of subject was so purposeless John had to thrash his head in disbelief.

"Excuse me?"

"Apple cider, do you want some?" Sherlock offered, thrusting his thumb to the bar counter on his right.

"Uh…" John stumbled, contracting his eyebrows as he was majorly confused. "Sure…"

After they sat down at the far end of the hall, Sherlock kept his eyes pinned on the boy in the corner while John scanned the room, marveling at the festive decorations and outfits people wore. The Gryffindor suddenly got the sense the eagle was spying on the mysterious lad, so he nudged him in the elbow. Sherlock was so focused on his concentration that all he did was hum from his mouth.

"Are you onto something?" the blond questioned, trying to make their secluded conversation look as normal as possible.

"Why not?" Holmes suggested, considering the idea.  _Us running around the school, causing trouble and needing to know everything that's going on._ "That would be interesting. Just the two of us, running around the school, solving mysteries and taking on the world." John shrugged his shoulders, thinking Sherlock's idea wasn't so bad if he said so himself.

"What do you say?"

John looked up and gave him a smirk. "Hell, why not?"

"That's my boy," the older boy smiled, slapping his buddy across his back.

"What?"

"Nothing."

John didn't bother asking. "I suppose we should get our pictures taken soon with Molly, Lestrade, and Mary," he said, seeing the short flashes from the camera behind the screens to his right.

"Ugh, gross," Sherlock snorted, disgusted. If there was one thing Sherlock hated that most Mugglesdidn't, it was getting his picture taken.

"Come on." John attempted to convince him. "It's not that bad. My mum used to take pictures of me and Harriet all the time when we were little…" He shook his head, recalling the moments when Harry embarrassed him in public or messed up his ruffled hair just to piss him off, but he smiled anyway because he couldn't help it. Deep down, he loved his older sister.

"There are far more important things I can do than get my picture taken, John," he replied, and suddenly Holmes was on his feet, fast walking under the arched entrance of the dining area. Watson had to sprint to catch up, his navy blue robes swaying behind him in the breeze his body created.

He nearly bumped into his partner Mary Morstan, and she flung around to yell at him. "Where are you going?" she wanted to know, standing with a giggly Sarah Sawyer.

"No time to explain!" John shouted over his shoulder, and then stopped himself and pointed a finger at her slim figure. "I'll be back!" he gasped through short breaths, and bolted out of the hall after Sherlock.

He came to a controlling stop at the right wall of the archway, and Sherlock used hand motions to tell John to stay where he was. The younger Gryffindor flattened himself against the wall as the Ravenclaw pointed to the doors to the castle that led to the grounds. The taller boy was doing his best to hide behind a pillar sticking out from the wall, snaking his head around to watch someone leave the building.

John got a better look and saw the gel‒haired boy slipping through a small crack in the open oak front doors, clearly unaware that the two buddies were watching him. Sherlock motioned for John to join him as he snuck to the center of the entrance hall, preparing to follow the boy and find out what he was up to.

"You realize we're really bad at this, don't you?" John commented, joining his friend at his side.

"So what?" Sherlock ignored, his hand resting inches from the door's glossy and carved surface. "Ready?" Holmes asked, nodding his head in John's direction. The brave lion brought in a deep inhale and was determined he could accomplish their task with his consulting friend by his side.

He thought he heard the next sentence wrong from the younger Holmes's mouth. "Could be dangerous."

John gave him a look but figured he'd been in more dangerous situations than this before. "Go," he said flatly, his tone in one note.

Ready to sneak and act at any moment, Sherlock pushed open the door. John let the first year in the black robes with the forest trim slip out of the castle before him, and he closed the door as normally as he could.

When Sherlock pivoted around on the ball of his foot after checking that John had shut the door, their mysterious man from the corner of the hall was nowhere in sight. Holmes sighed tremendously. "It did no good after all," he concluded. "Maybe it really was nothing...He's probably a loser anyway."

He got a slap on the arm from his helper for being rude.

* * *

Even though it was almost thirty degrees outside and a light snow was beginning to fall, Sherlock offered John to join him for a stroll. "Shall we?" he asked, swishing his hand forward to point to the pathway on their left.

"Um, Sherlock? It's freezing out here…" The Quidditch player was hunched over and hugging himself, teeth clamping as he tried to stay warm from his own body heat.

"So?" He didn't care and pushed John in the back, walking slowly behind him. "They've got some tacky decorations out here," Holmes remarked, spotting the vibrant red berries sticking out of the shrubbery lining the stone path.

"Yeah well…" John froze in mid‒sentence as he accidentally broke one of the icicles close by. Shaking and being sneaky, he took the cracked ice and flung it under the nearest bush, hoping no one would notice later.

"Enjoying your night so far?" Sherlock asked, his arms behind his back, serving as a presentation of a proper gentleman.

"I guess so," John concluded, shuffling his feet through a small patch of snow. The temperature of the white mound was cold beneath the sole of his foot, passing through the barrier as easily as the ventilation system in his home. "Oh god, turn around," he said, grossed out and assuring that the older boy didn't see what his eyes had witnessed.

"What?" Sherlock stumbled, feeling John's strong muscles dig into his upper back.

"Just —" John paused, exhaling deeply again. "People kissing. I'm not fond of watching. Besides, it's bloody cold out here."

"Fine," Sherlock agreed, heading back to the school. "Hey, when we get inside, I'll get you a hot chocolate. Deal?"

"You're on," John piped up, a smile spreading over his face, which still had some chubbiness in his pink, wind‒nibbled cheeks.

* * *

Molly was poking Sherlock's upper arm while he sat with his arms crossed on one of the benches. Her voice was full of thrill, as she'd had a wonderful night dancing with her partner. "It will take ten seconds, Sherlock," she promised, checking over her shoulder and finding there was no one in line to get their pictures taken.

John was standing a few feet away chatting happily with Mary, the mug of hot chocolate from his best friend still clasped in his tiny hand. He said something funny which made her laugh, and she buried her head into his shoulder bone which stuck out through his bulky muscles. Lestrade stood next to the skinny girl Sarah Sawyer, trying to ask her a few questions about herself. She answered politely and truthfully every time, and it was very easy for her to get along with others. She had a jokester personality which made their relationship as friends evolve more rapidly without downsides.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock did his best to flatten his brunette curls growing from his skull. His mood had changed dramatically from the start of their first night off for the holidays, but he managed to keep his grumbling behavior under control for the last twenty minutes.

A very upbeat tune started to play, blasting from the speakers around the orchestra. Molly girlishly squealed over the beating pop music before the voice of a man started to sing, and she apologized quickly for her foolishness. "Sorry," she said bashfully, pulling up her bright yellow dress. "I love this song. Not necessarily this group's album, but I'm fond of this song. Mum and Dad always let me listen to it on the radio back home."

"Fine!" Sherlock gave in, jumping up from the seat and startling his weekly Patronus practice buddies nearby. His voice lowered for his next sentence. "Let's get this thing over with…"

Lestrade looked absolutely pleased with himself and grabbed John's mug from his hand, setting it down on a counter not far away. The photographer positioned them into a reasonable pattern, putting Sherlock in the middle of them all because he was the tallest in height. The words of Molly's favorite song were blurred behind the back drop, but the five friends could nonetheless still make them out as the two girls were placed next to the only Ravenclaw.

" _I'll find the places where you hide, I'll be the dawn on your worst night, you're the only thing left that I like, yeah I would kill for you that's right. If that's what you wanted."_

"Alright," the photographer said from behind the lens, "everybody smile!" Mary nudged Sherlock in the ribs to make sure he showed his teeth, and just like that the photo was taken.

"Thanks!" Molly exclaimed, taking the image from the camera man's outstretched hand. "Okay, John? Mary? You two want to go next?" Morstan agreed and the three others pushed off to the side to allow the first couple of friends to go.

Unfortunately, John was looking away when their picture was taken, but Mary liked it anyway. Molly and Lestrade went after, and they were so close to each other it looked like a high school prom portrait only better. Her head was tilted back as he leaned in over her, Greg's hands holding hers on her stomach. Sherlock had never seen Molly express a smile as wide and happy as the one in the winter dance photo he held in his hands.

"Where's Sarah?" Lestrade asked, trying to peer above the mass of people now starting to leave the hall and head off to bed.

"Doesn't matter…" Sherlock told him, hoping they too could end their night so he could get some sleep.

"Hang on, we still have to get one more picture taken." John was still standing in his navy robes by the camera, giving Sherlock a hinting stare. "Come here, Sherlock." Because it was John,  _his_ John, Sherlock put on the best smile he ever showed in his life and didn't object.

John kept the image hidden under his vest as the last song they would hear that night died into the final few lines. He revealed it as an early Christmas gift at the top of the marble staircase while they were alone, before he gave Sherlock a friendship hug for bed. The Christmas wreath over their heads shimmered in the candlelight, and the dark colors of their robes blended well together to resemble a nightfall scene.

_Just me and John. The two first years who can conquer the world. The unbeatable duo who can handle anything._

"What a night," John sighed, smiling and rubbing the muscles on Holmes's upper arm.

"Never thought I'd say so myself,"the brunette stated. He glanced down at their two smiling faces printed on the shiny paper and reached forward to give it back to his little Gryffindor.

"No you keep it," John inquired, re buttoning the front of his dress robes. "Let's just say it's an early Christmas present."

He left Sherlock standing at the bottom of the stairs as he ruffled his blond locks, heading up to Gryffindor Tower at a deadly hour in the morning with a rushing relief feeling in his veins.

" _If I lay here, if I just lay here, would you lie with me and just forget the world?"_

* * *

John woke up lazily the next morning around ten, seeing as he went to bed about seven and three‒quarters hours earlier. The room was entirely empty when he rolled off the mattress, and he noticed three of the five beds were perfectly made with no luggage set on top of the floorboards. Only one of his fellow Gryffindor boys seemed to be staying, and John's brain was fuzzy as he threw on a sweater to head down for some breakfast.

It was true in fact that his twelve‒year‒old roommate Gale sat at the nearest end of the Gryffindor table, and Watson asked him what was going on, not properly functional yet."Where is everyone?" he wondered, rubbing his sleeping eyes.

"Gone!" Gale replied gleefully, throwing his hands up into the air. "It's the first day of the holidays, remember? Everyone's headed back home to spend time with their families."

"Oh! Right…" John remembered, feeling stupid. He finished a leisurely chat with his housemate and wished him good day. Jumping up, he replied enthusiastically, "Well, see you later!"

"Bye!"

There may have been twenty‒five people scattered in the hall, the most being from the Ravenclaw table. Mary wasn't in sight, as she'd told John at the dance that she would be spending the holidays at home with her parents and cousins. The train had departed earlier that morning, and John wished he could've wished them happy holidays before the headed off for winter vacation. Molly must have gone without fail, because her vibrant ginger hair wasn't picked out from the Hufflepuff table, and it was obvious Greg went too because his trunk was missing from Gryffindor Tower.

John sat down by himself towards the middle of the table where a group of platters sat holding toast and bacon for his first meal. A sixth year blond‒haired girl was seated a few benches down from him, her hair in loose braids and makeup smudged on her face from the previous night.

"Hey." At least one familiar face was still around for winter break. Sherlock looked as alive as he ever would be, joining John across the house table that wasn't his own and resting his elbows on the surface.

"Oh! Morning." John stretched, pulling the tray of bacon closer to him. He took a crunchy bite as Sherlock crumbled an old essay into a ball and stuffed it into his pocket. "This is abnormal," John stated, eyes scanning the empty space all around them.

"Hmm…" Holmes hummed, amused.

"Did any of your fellow first years in your dorm leave too?"

"All of them," Sherlock said almost proudly, because he was relieved he could spend his nights alone for a few weeks.

"Oh…" Watson went back to his toast and chugged half of his orange juice. "How about this..."He began to suggest ideas and plans, his mouth half full of food. He swallowed before continuing, nodding his head to make himself clear and apologizing about his terrible manners. "Why don't you come hang out with me in my common room on Christmas day?"

Sherlock contracted his eyebrows. "Why?"

"Why not? You really don't want to be alone for the holidays, do you?"

A long sigh came out of the older boy's mouth. Reluctantly, he finally answered. "Fine. I'll come."

* * *

There wasn't much to do over the following week. John had a routine of waking up in the morning, possibly having a go on a broom to practice on the Quidditch pitch, meeting up with Sherlock to finish up homework early for teachers, and sometimes perfecting his Patronus on a boggart out of habit. A few times he found himself collapsing onto the cold stone floor in fear, but other times as the holidays grew nearer he was able to produce a shield larger than himself to keep him out of harm.

Sherlock even practiced on the dementor and a shield erupted from his Sycamore wood wand. John had never seen him cast a corporeal Patronus, but Holmes always claimed he'd 'done it on his own many times before'.

Wednesday morning arrived, and John awoke bright and early to find a small pile of gifts lying at the foot of his bed. Excited, he rolled over to check the date on his wrist watch. It was in fact the 25th of December, and heavy snow was falling outside the window to his left.

"Gale! Gale, wake up!" John shouted, leaping out of bed and shaking his roommate viciously.

"Why?" the dark‒haired boy groaned, accidentally smacking Watson in the face.  _Ouch!_ the lion interjected.

"You bloody well know why!" John chuckled, still rubbing his eye. "It's Christmas!" At the mention of the holiday's name, Gale Royceston bolted up in bed, shutting his eyes tight as he sat up too quickly.

John hastily unwrapped his presents, which included a box of sweets from his aunt, a few Galleons from his parents, a new scarlet jumper from his mum, an interesting looking book from Harriet, and another box of chocolates from his entire family. A note was enclosed accompanying the chocolates with a short message from his father about life after serving in the Army, with an extra explanation of how much he loved his son.

Hidden inside the jumper was a brand new hat from his dad. The hat was covered in a green, brown, and black camouflage pattern, with a black pom‒pom knitted on top. John pulled the hat over his fluffy blond locks and felt the cotton against his went over to examine his new look in the dresser mirror.

"How do I look?" he asked his roommate, who was now able to spit out hilarious remarks like it was his life job.

"Absolutely stunning, darling." Watson snorted at the name that was used, afterwards considering it could have been something more humorous or unfortunate.

"Oh! I forgot!" he exclaimed, throwing the hat off his head and onto the bed, "Sherlock's outside the portrait hole!"

"What?" Gale questioned as John squeezed into his usual Christmas jumper. It was navy blue with red and white shapes lining the collar, and it was fuzzy wool which kept him warm in harsh snow storms. He carefully sprinted down the stone stairs, doing his best not to slip in his red fuzzy socks as he did so.

He stopped forcefully at the edge of the common room carpet at the bottom. For Sherlock was standing four feet to the right of a luminous fire and a twinkling Christmas tree, just his size.

"Sherlock," John gasped, heavily breathing. "What…?" Sherlock smiled sweetly.

"How did you get in the portrait hole?"Watson seemed almost appalled, but his tone showed he was in utter shock.

"Oh please." Sherlock shook the statement off as if it was nothing. "It's the science of deduction, John. Really clueless to figure out the password." John tilted his head, still amazed at Sherlock's brilliance and how he managed to figure out the spoken word to Gryffindor Tower.

"So," Sherlock elongated his word, holding out his hands with his palms up, "want to open presents?"

"Yeah!" John smiled, jumping up and not denying anything. "Hang on," he said, bringing his childlike actions back to composure, "I'll be right back!" He turned on his feet and ran back up the stairs, down the hall, and through the open door to his dorm. "Hey Gale," he said, searching for a neatly wrapped box in silver paper under his bed, "Sherlock's downstairs. We're about to open presents if you'd care to join us."

"Yeah, give me a minute will you!" he laughed, and John smirked as he crouched by the floor. "I just barely woke up. I'll be down in a few."

"Okay," John giggled, retrieving the gift he had been searching for. "Take your time." He gave Royceston a small salute and headed back out the door.

Sherlock was lounged in one of the comfy armchairs when John flew back into the room, and the younger first year tried to hide the present from his friend as he placed it under the tree. "Okay!"he said happily, straightening up and pulling down his sweater, "dig in!"

Magically, Sherlock's presents were delivered and appeared under the tree overnight.  _Clearly Dumbledore knew…_ Sherlock deduced, but slid from the chair to pick out a starting gift anyway.  _I'll_ _open John's last. Got to save the best for the finale._

"How many boxes of sweets are people sending me?" John seemed to complain as he placed a jar of wizard sweets from Molly onto the couch.

"They're probably sending them because they know you have a sweet tooth and you'll eat them all," Sherlock put in, seeing that the answer was logical. "Or they don't know you well enough, so they don't want to get you something you might not like." He opened his present from Lestrade to find a tiny figure of a eagle. It was bewitched with a charm to move and fly around him, and Holmes thanked his absent Gryffindor friend for a replica of his house's mascot.

"Wow!" John remarked, unwrapping a coat from a bunch of lime green tissue paper. The jacket was Gryffindor colors, and John read the tag on the package to find it was from the Quidditch captain. On the back across his shoulder blades the name 'Watson' was inscribed, and the number one was sewn into the left arm sleeve. A golden lion was patched onto the front of the chest, and the blond marveled at his new jacket, which he knew Anthony didn't have to purchase or make it for him, whichever he did.

John immediately slipped on the new piece of clothing, finding fleece covering the inside to keep him toasty in winter. "Looks good on you," Holmes complimented, and John felt his cheeks blush cherry red.

Sherlock was majorly confused at the next gift he opened. There was no tag or name to say who it was from, and it was wrapped in crumpled orange paper. From the depths of the organized wrapping Sherlock pulled out a book. Not a book related to school or wizards for that matter, but it was a book related to his hometown in the Muggle world.

The information guide was titled  _London A-Z_  and not a crease pierced the binding. The cover page had that so‒called glossy look to it, and the letters were in the colors of red, white, and blue. "What's this junk for?" he asked, puzzled as he showed the book to his friend.

"Dunno. I've never seen that book in my life. You should keep it though," he added quickly. "Might come in handy back home."

"I suppose," Sherlock considered, shrugging his shoulders and throwing the Muggle present onto the chair his back was resting on. The Ravenclaw lunged forward to open the rest of his gifts, and halfway through he heard John mumble about receiving another jumper.

"I'm going to have a wardrobe full by the end of the year…" the Gryffindor murmured, slinging it over the arm of the couch. Sherlock chuckled to himself. He was still occupied with his pointless book that he hadn't noticed John was opening his gift.

"Careful with it," Sherlock warned him, and his buddy took precautions while opening it.

John froze when he saw the gift inside. He gave Sherlock a 'no‒you‒didn't' look and the Ravenclaw smirked. Out of the wrapping paper, John lifted a blue flower with a bright green stem.  _A stem that matched Sherlock's eyes…_

The taller boy had clearly been keeping the flower in pristine condition over the past months, and Watson didn't need to ask as he recognized the blossom from their first meeting in the hospitable field back home. "Thank you," he smiled, placing the delicate flower gingerly on top of his small mound of presents. Turning back to face his friend, he encouraged, "Open mine."

John flattened himself to the floor to peer under the rainbow‒lighted Christmas tree. He pulled out his gift to his best friend and slid it across the carpet. It bumped into Sherlock's knee, and he took no hesitation in opening the paper‒covered box.

When the brunette removed the lid, he couldn't believe the neatly folded gift that was nestled inside. His long, skinny fingers picked up the smooth fabric, and the box in his left hand fell unnoticed to the floor. "John…" He tried to speak but found himself stuttering to find the correct words in his situation.

"What do you think?" John asked, hopeful.

The navy blue scarf was the length of his torso, and small fringes lined the bottom. It was divided into two shades of thick blue stripes, and all Sherlock could do was run his fingers over the cotton. "John…" he repeated, too stunned for words.  _I'm being stupid,_ he told himself.  _I'm fawning over a scarf…_

"Do you like it?" John was trying to force an answer from Holmes.

"I‒I‒I love it!" Sherlock admitted, folding the scarf perfectly in half and snaking it around his neck. He drew a loop and threaded the end of the clothing through the gap, pulling it tight so the end rested comfortably over his chest.

"Really? Well, I'm glad you do!" John sank onto the cushiony couch next to his pile of stuff in relief and played with his own feet. Sherlock kept his scarf on for almost the rest of the day, and John motioned for the older eleven‒year‒old to join him. Sherlock sat with his buddy in front of the cackling fire, feeling the tingling sensation of heat being absorbed into his body and the fuzziness of John's hair on his neck.

"It's blue like Ravenclaw," Sherlock noticed, gesturing at his present.

"Funny, I never considered that when I bought it for you. Well, it just fits perfectly then."

The snow outside the window was swiftly stroking the glass, and Sherlock was glad he was curled up with John behind the barriers protecting their school. No one else around, just the two of them.

"Oh yeah, here." Sherlock poked John in his stomach above his hip and he flinched, being tickle‒ish in that spot.

"Hmm?" John looked up and saw Sherlock was passing over a piece of paper to him. The blond took it without question, and when he peeled the two halves apart saw a message Holmes was hinting to him.

_Just the two of us against the rest of the world._

The smile widened on his cheeks from ear to ear, and Sherlock pulled Watson's head in closer to his chest. "Merry Christmas, John." The lion was welcomed into the snuggle with a tiny squeeze on his left wrist. And he didn't care if anyone got any ideas about them during their adventures at school. Because when he was with Sherlock Holmes, he had the passionate freedom to imagine possibilities, dream big, and believe in himself.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock."


	18. Psychosis

**Chapter Eighteen**

Psychosis 

* * *

John smiled sweetly every time he saw Sherlock wandering the halls with his brand new soft blue scarf on, and the Ravenclaw had it wrapped around his neck as if it was permanently pinned there. Watson nearly toppled down the marble stairs in the entrance hall one morning on his was to breakfast as one of the knights in armor statues suddenly busted out into a bellowing edition of  _All I Want For Christmas Is You._

Sherlock blushed deeply in embarrassment of his only friend and changed his path of indication to join the Gryffindor at his side, tightening his present firmer around his neck. "You really need to watch what you do," he had to point out, just to make John feel more stupid than he already did.

"And I care because…?" he responded, fishing for the wiser eleven‒year‒old to come up with a knowledgeable and logical assumption.

"Nothing," Sherlock said dryly. "Just don't want to draw too much attention to yourself."

John chuckled as they sat down at the red and gold house table. A glorious fire was crackling in the fireplace behind his back on the far wall of the hall, and it sent a warm blast through the dining area. "Ha," John mused, "like I want or need any more attention."

Sherlock shrugged and leaned his elbows on the glossy table. He never really understood the meaning of manners, and John, Lestrade, and Molly had all adapted to accept that fact. The only time he tried to be polite was when he addressed Mycroft, but even then he ended up ticking off his brother as a result or mimicking the sixteen‒year‒old Slytherin prefect.

"So..." John started up, taking a bite out of his fried egg. He scrunched up his face in disgust as too much pepper settled on his tongue, stinging his gums and the inside of his mouth. He swallowed loudly and Sherlock looked up in disturbed way. "Sorry…" John mumbled, coughing and chugging down half his glass of milk to satisfy his taste buds. "So," he repeated again, this time avoiding slipping any food into his mouth as he coughed, "what are we going to do today?"

Sherlock tried to lean back against the chair but realized there wasn't a back to the bench he could lean against. Disappointed, he bent his spine forward instead and drew shapes on the wood with his finger. "Dunno," he admitted. "Something entertaining."

"Why?" The question was asked almost immediately. "Wait," Watson paused, knowing there was a catch to this while he held his pointer finger aloft, "what's entertaining in your terms?"

"I'd say experimenting with spells or mixing various potions, or maybe me beating you in a game of Wizard Chess. But I highly doubt you'd agree to any of those activities. I'm like, 97.46% positive you won't want to do any of those —"

"Who says I won't?" John interrupted, clicking his fork against his pearly teeth.  _John?_ Sherlock warned him with his eyebrow, and the younger kid responded with a gesture of slowly dropping his silverware to his plate, telling his friend not to underestimate him.

"And why do this today?" John continued, going back to cutting his sausage into edible bits. "Of all days, why is today special?"

"Don't you see, John?" Holmes hinted, but the blond shook his head stiffly.  _He_ _sees,_ _but does_ _not observe._ "It's the last full day off for the holidays tomorrow. It'll be the last time we'll be able to do whatever we want, just you and me."  _Well I certainly wouldn't have kept track of our free days._ John nodded, amused as he tilted his head in agreement.

Watson set his napkin back on the surface of the furniture and leaned in to the Ravenclaw, his red plaid long‒sleeved shirt ruffling near the trims of his arm sockets. "I think it's you who's going to lose in Wizard Chess today."He grinned and got up from his seat.

"Oh, so it's a challenge now, is it?" Sherlock mocked back, jumping up from the bench and striding after his little lion out of the Great Hall. There was an, "Uh huh, you betcha!" from the blond in return. He knew he could beat the young detective at something, even if it was something as simple and foolish as Chess or Cluedo.

* * *

Around noon the next day, January 5th, piles of students from all houses suddenly poured into the entrance to the school, and the usual rumble of voices was heard rebounding off the stone walls once more. Sherlock stood alone pressed flat on one of the walls by the great front doors and watched the students come back to school, and in the meantime John had rushed upstairs to grab a jumper and his winter hat so they could go for a stroll on the grounds. Watson had even somehow coaxed Sherlock into joining him to go visit Hagrid.

He stood staring down at the hem of his favorite black coat as hundreds of pairs of feet swept by him. The bottom of his coat came to rest just above his ankles, and he always wore the collar turned up. Over the years he had managed to keep himself from giggling as the fabric tickled the sharp edges of his cheekbones, and he always liked picking out the random little red thread around one of the button holes in the upper right corner of the column of connectors.

Someone accidentally bumped into him and rudely didn't apologize, but when Sherlock recognized Irene Adler glaring back at him he knew she'd tapped him on purpose. The fur around her head made her dark brown hair stand out exceedingly, and her lipstick resembled the red color of holly berries on mistletoe.

"Sherlock!" A familiar bold voice with a strong British accent boomed over some of the surrounding calls, and the receiver glanced up to see Greg Lestrade pushing his way through the mass to where he stood.

"Hello!" Sherlock replied cheerfully as Greg pulled off a knitted hat from his head. His cheeks were splotched from the frosty wind outside, but he still had that ridiculous grin plastered across his face.

Just a few minor deductions told the younger Holmes brother that Lestrade had a wonderful Christmas and spent it with his family.  _New knitted mittens to match his hat (must have been sewn by his mum),_ _signs of chocolate dotting the edge of his lips (clearly he's been chomping on sweets on the ride here),_ _new jacket from a family member (tag is clearly visible and crystal clear to read…)_

"How was your holiday?" Lestrade asked, now removing his puffy mittens from his frozen fingers.

"It was surprisingly okay," he told the truth. "John and I spent a lot of time messing around together."  _The red_ _‒_ _head isn't here._ His brain interrupted his talking. "Where's Molly?" he implied, and Lestrade looked mildly baffled as he swiveled around to find no one behind him.

"Huh…" he sighed. "She was behind me a few minutes ago. Must have gotten lost in the mob, cause she rode in the same compartment as I did."

"And my first roommate has shown himself!" A delightful John appeared from the dying crowd, adjusting the buttons on the front of his black jacket and holding his blended forest colored hat in his gloved‒covered palms. "Hey Lestrade!" he greeted, shaking his muscular arm and adding an additional pat on the back for good measure. "Care to join us?" the smaller Gryffindor offered, pointing to the grounds outside and giving him a 'please' expression. "We're going to visit Hagrid."

"I'd love to," he told them, and then Sherlock heard the excuse he was expecting, "but I just realized that I didn't do my Potions homework over break. Gotta go do that or Snape is going to bite my head off tomorrow. And hell, I don't fancy getting put down on our first day back from break. Catch you later!" he said, and without another sentence to add to his excuse he fast‒walked to the bottom of the marble staircase and then bolted up to Gryffindor Tower.

"Come on," Holmes inquired Watson, bending his head down after following Greg with his eyes until he was out of sight. "Hagrid's," he said, nudging John on the shoulder.

"Right."

The two first years began to exit the school as a few remaining bundled up kids filed into the entrance hall. Someone sneezed nearby and her friend tried to comfort the sick person, but the results only ended with her bursting out laughing for some reason.

"Oh, there goes Molly," Sherlock commented, watching the red headed Hufflepuff walk by with white earmuffs covering her ears and chatting away happily with Henry Knight. John only nodded, seeing as he was too short in height to peer over the heads of most of the students in the school. But being one of the shortest meant nothing to Sherlock. It was the brave and loyal characteristics that he admired the most about his dear Gryffindor friend, John H. Watson.

_Funny enough, I haven't bothered to ask him what his middle name is yet…_

* * *

They spent a long time chatting with Hagrid about their recent school grades and holiday events, since they hadn't visited him in a long while. For about three and a half hours, they answered all the questions that were fired at them with high speed, and Sherlock did his best to catch and unravel Hagrid's strange way of talking.

Around two o'clock, Rubeus politely offered them some hot tea, and the two first years gladly accepted the invitation. Sherlock replied, "Two sugars please," and John thought differently with, "Just a dab of milk, thank you."

John had to secure both his cupped hands under the bowl‒sized mug in order to keep it from spilling on his lap. He removed a Chocolate Frog from under his robes and chomped its head off before asking if Sherlock wanted one. Without hesitation, the curly‒haired boy denied the request with a shake of his head and John sank his head in a bummed out way.

Hagrid then asked how John's last Quidditch practices went before Christmas time, and the lion told the truth that it wasn't remotely entertaining or fun. For the temperature seemed to drop by the day, and the longer John stayed out in the light‒falling snow, the more his cheeks flushed to look like cherries and the frostbite on his fingers became worse. He kept his hands protected from then on with a pair of mittens from home that Harriet had lent to him for school purposes.

After a while, they all sat in silence, Hagrid debating what next to ask them and Sherlock sneakily giving John quick flickers with his green eyes. The little Gryffindor's feet barely hung off the edge of the monstrous cushion, and he twirled his sock‒wrapped toes in order to keep himself occupied.

The silence was broken by faint footsteps passing by the front door outside, but no knuckles knocked on the wooden barrier. Instead, there was a random clicking noise, and then the sound of someone, or something, bounding away towards the south. _And the only thing that's south from here is the Forbidden Forest._

It was quite a long while before the feet were heard a second time, but this time they went around the back of the hut and through the trees on the edge of the maze. Holmes jumped up from the armchair, somehow managing not to spill his drink all the while and rushed over to the window.  _No_ _one's there…_

"Sh'rlock?" Hagrid asked, extending his back from bending over to search through a kitchen cupboard. "What are yeh on about?"

The disappointed boy's fingertips slid down the icy glass, tracing a path cutting through the perspiration on the window as they slipped. "Nothing," he lied, and he returned his hands to the pockets of his dress pants.

Sherlock spun around to scan the single‒roomed home, and he found Hagrid's boarhound Fang curled up in the corner by the quilted bed, fast asleep. Every time he let out air from his nose a nuzzled snore would escape from between his teeth deep in his closed jaw. A small dribble of drool hung from the corner of his mouth, but the dog didn't stir, even when Hagrid had clanked the cups and plates around earlier.

Sherlock gave John 'the look' and the blond Gryffindor understood that they should've been making their way back to the castle. It was a sort of signal they had planned for various reasons, along with code words they'd recorded somewhere on a notepad for safekeeping.

And the liquid in Sherlock's mug had only been a quarter consumed, whereas John had almost drained his cup. Sherlock believed he could get away with John not noticing, but when the shorter kid grabbed his black jacket from the back of the chair, he did indeed spot the clue.

At four o'clock in the afternoon on that Sunday, they thanked Hagrid for his kind hospitality and bid him good day. Rubeus reminded them to come back and visit whenever they pleased, and John promised they would sooner or later.

The two friends shivered as they made their short distance back to the castle, snow rising to come and rest above their ankles, even when they stepped in their footsteps from on their way down to the cabin. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Sherlock adjust his blue scarf around his neck, and the younger student shortened his neck to hide it behind his coat collar.

When they were not twenty feet from Hagrid's front door, a loud and drawn‒out howl rang into the January boys stopped on the spot in alarm. It was obvious the noise had come from the depths of the forest, but it was sharp as it was yowled out, so clearly whatever it was wasn't far from the trees' entrance.

"What the hell was that?" John exclaimed, a tad bit frightened as his palms sunk deeper into his pockets.

Sherlock glanced up and down the forest edge, preparing to pick out any sign of life. "I don't know," he concluded, leaving his mouth open. Small clouds protruded from his agape lips each time he let out a breath, causing the air to puff out in white clusters and make him look remarkably like a fiery dragon.

"We should hurry up and get back qui —" But he abruptly halted and his pupils went wide as he caught barely visible movements between the dark brown trunks of the surrounding trees.

But whatever it was vanished as quickly as it came, because when John searched he found nothing among the dead leaves and bushes. "Sherlock…?" he asked, grabbing a clump of fabric of his sleeve and shaking his friend out of his daze. As Holmes blinked, his head jerked to the side, staring down at John. The Gryffindor asked the question with quizzical eyebrows, but the eagle ignored him and headed off towards Hogwarts.

John flexed his hands in a way to show he didn't understand, but the uncomfortable feeling the howl had exposed disturbed him, so he set off at a sprint, shuffling his feet in the fluffy piled flakes to catch up with Sherlock's long legs. But Holmes had stopped, head bent over as he observed the snow.

Because there wasn't just two sets of footprints imprinted in the snow.

There were four. One was a set of feet belonging to a student, a boy more specifically as Sherlock had worked out.  _The feet are too small to belong to a professor, but there's an undeniable pattern to the bottom of the shoes, mapped and typed out precisely. He takes strides of about three feet apart and he's about four foot eleven in height. Walks more so on the balls of his feet rather than the heels, because the print isn't as easy to make out around the back of the shoe._ But the fourth set of footprints...

John gasped when he realized they weren't human footprints at all. They were paw prints; the footprints of a gigantic hound.

* * *

"Breakfast is the most important meal of the day," John explained, trying to get the Ravenclaw to understand the usefulness the next day. Sherlock was refusing to swallow any sort of food or refreshment, and John considered the possibility that his friend was attempting to starve himself.

"I don't care," he refused stubbornly, shoving the pieces of food that was passed to him away in hate.

Lestrade was just as concerned as John was, and he leaned forward to add to the conversation. "Sherlock, it's the first day back to classes. Do you really want to go to Herbology without digesting something? Food gives you energy and helps you get through the day."

"I don't eat when I'm working," Sherlock butted in. "Digesting slows me down."

"What do you mean 'when you're working'?" Greg flung a small bit of toast across the table as he flicked his wrist, refusing to believe Holmes's lame excuse. "At least eat a cinnamon roll or something…"

"Look, you can't make me eat!" he suddenly screamed out, and a few of his fellow housemates turned to stare from the table behind where they sat.

He'd had enough. He was sick of people telling him he needed to get carbohydrates or fats inside him. He was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. He collected his things and snatched up his schedule, then swinging his legs over the bench, got up and rushed from the dining hall.

"Sherlock!" John called after him, but the younger Holmes brother didn't halt to respond to his name. Mouth open, Watson turned his head back to Lestrade and the buffer Gryffindor swallowed his mouthful of food before confessing.

"It wasn't my fault!" he supported his theory, his arms flying to the side of his head in innocence and defense.

"No," John mumbled, returning to his state of depression. "You had nothing to do with it. I'm the one who's being too harsh on him."

"How though? You're not doing anything."

And John was sure of his response. "I don't know." It was true. He was heartbroken and cared deeply for his friend, and two things stuck out to him as the brunette bolted from the hall. _One, his shirt is slightly too big around the stomach area. Two, his belt was hooked around the fourth hole, not secured in the third. There's only one explanation for this madness…_

_Sherlock's lost weight._

_The only question is, how?_

Lestrade moved his tongue around in his dry mouth, unable to find words and express his concern about Sherlock's recent disapproval of meals. He changed the subject, and good thing too because it firmly grabbed John's attention. "Did you hear that strange noise last night? You know, the one that sounded like a mad dog roaming the grounds?"

"You know about that? Heck, it nearly scared the daylights out of us. We were outside at the time heading back from Hagrid's."

"Really?" Lestrade piped up, and John shook his hands forcefully to get the exuberant lion to calm down.

"Shut up!" he whispered thickly. "Jesus, we don't need the entirety of Europe to hear us."

"Sorry. Did you see anything though?" he asked, his curiosity coming back rather quickly.

"What? No! Of course not…" John did very well to hide the uneasiness from his tone. He checked the time on his watch and nodded his head at the direction of the entrance hall. "Come on. We'd better head up to the History of Magic classroom. It takes years to get up there."

"Nah, only about fifteen minutes," Lestrade corrected him.

"I was kidding." John rolled his eyes, secretly giggling that Lestrade didn't comprehend his exaggeration.

* * *

"Bloody hell! I hate Snape!"

Sherlock barely fidgeted as a grumpy Lestrade stormed into his section of the library. At least, he liked to claim that it was his space. Rumors had spread (undoubtedly by Sally Donovan) that Sherlock was indeed a freak, and hence no one dared to go near him while he studied on his own. He sat on the wooden paneled floor with his knees up to his chest, resembling a child that just had their favorite toy taken away because their older sibling tattle‒tailed on them.

"Why?" Sherlock wondered, a hint of anger escaping in his voice.

Lestrade collapsed next to the Ravenclaw before telling his upsetting story of the day. "He gave me a detention! He took one look at my essay I did last night and claimed I 'hadn't put enough effort into it'," he said, mocking Severus Snape's monotone.

"So what?" Sherlock grumbled, squeezing his wand so tightly the blood failed to flow to his hands and they drained to white.

"So, that means I'll miss our Patronus lesson this week!"

"Hmm…" Holmes hummed, un‒amused. He didn't even care that Greg's tone was so loud that people in the next aisle over could listen in on their conversation.

"Sherlock," Lestrade turned to face him, a look of almost insurgence crossing his face, "what has gotten into you lately? You're pissed at everyone. What's your problem?"

The scream exploded from his mouth in frustration and made Lestrade jump back, alarmed. "There's nothing wrong with me, do you understand!" The voices in the next row of bookshelves now died down and stopped whispering, but Sherlock couldn't care less.

Lestrade didn't increase his anger at Sherlock, but instead his face morphed into an expression of distress. "Fine," he pronounced nonchalantly. He stood up and Sherlock's eyes followed his thick head of hair as he fully stretched out his knees. "I'm just trying to help," he added, making sure Sherlock comprehended.

"Yeah, well you can't," Sherlock spoke, avoiding Lestrade's hard glare.

"And why's that?" he almost spat back, sinking into his left hip for the effect. There was no answer from the eagle who remained on the floor.

"Oh, can you only speak to John about it? Is that why?" His tone was rising with every spoken syllable.

"I'm sorry, Lestrade!" he fired again, but then his tone dropped significantly as his voice cracked. "Nobody can help me. Not even Mycroft."

Lestrade's frown grew larger from one end of his lips to the other. Not wanting to add anymore misery to his day, he turned on his heel and left Sherlock alone curled up in the corner, cut off undividedly from the rest of the world.

* * *

_What the devil was going on?_

Even though it was Tuesday, Sherlock summoned John to the Room of Requirement for a private chat. What was wrong and unusual was that when he stepped into the practice space, a new shape had joined the smiley face on the right wall.

Two distinct and incognito shapes were spray painted onto the reflected tiles, and no doubt Holmes could make out just from the curved lines that they were either Japanese or Chinese symbols.  _But why are they painted in here?_ _No one's been in here for a week and a half now._

He approached the scene hurriedly, slowly lifting his graceful yet shaking hand to touch the smooth wall. The paint was still wet and it stained his perfect nails.

There was a  _click_  as the door suddenly swung open, and Holmes surreptitiously wiped the liquid‒like substance onto a nearby cloth as John slipped into the room.

"You wanted to see me?" he said nervously, as if he was about to be lectured by a school counselor. Sherlock wasn't ready to speak, so he foolishly nodded his head.

John let the door close behind his back before he started to walk towards his friend. He all the sudden stopped, shrugging his shoulders and exposing his palms to his fellow first year. "What's up?" he indicated. "Don't say nothing is wrong," he dismissed before Holmes could infiltrate,"Lestrade told me."

"That's…that's not why I brought you here…" Sherlock tried to change the topic, but John knew he was lying right off the bat.

"Yes it is," he corrected hotly. He was dressed in a ragged pair of jeans and his black and white long‒sleeved shirt. Honestly, he wasn't sure why they had to meet at this hour. It was almost nine at night and most of the students were either finishing homework or wrapping up to say goodnight to friends. "Seriously, just tell me what's wrong —"

"John, I don't know!" Holmes was shouting again, and he started pacing with a harshness away from the blond, one hand pulling at the curls in his hair as he tried to rip them out.

"How can you not know? You've been downright depressed for  _days!"_

"I don't understand! No one can help me, so stop trying to force me to do stupid things like eat breakfast!"

John felt offended and didn't get why all this was his fault. He didn't want to be yelled at anymore, so he just hollered a completely different comment at the enraged boy, becoming irritated himself. "Don't think I didn't notice!"

"Notice what?" Sherlock muttered, glancing over his shoulder with his back to John and pretending like he had no idea whatsoever what he was talking about.

"It's January 6th."

"I don't care."

"You bloody well should care birthday boy!" The second mention of the date made Sherlock freeze. He twisted around to face the eleven‒year‒old, who had a blank look on his face but was breathing heavily to get Sherlock's attention.

Silence choked the room and both of them for a lingering, extended moment. And then Sherlock swiftly glided over to where the Gryffindor stood. John's brilliant eyes stared over his shoulder, but then changed as the taller boy, twelve years in age now, stood facing him.

Their eyes met for a split second, vibrant blue versus dazzling green, but John pulled away as he started to blink back tears. Then, reaching into the left back pocket of his jeans, he pulled out an almost physically impossible thin gift wrapped in blue and bronze paper.

"Here," he sniffed, reaching out his arm to clasp Sherlock's hand and place the present in his outstretched palm. Before ripping off the paper gently, the birthday boy let his mouth hang open in cowardliness as he gave John the saddest look he could muster.

The ribbon came off surprisingly with ease, and he let it fall to the floor neglectfully. The present weighed nothing, like a speck of dust, and he was careful in opening the slender package.

From under the light‒weight paper, Sherlock pulled out, marginally stumped, a gold and purple Chocolate Frog card. John was still staring at the floor silently when Holmes peered down at him, so he continued to examine the gift.

When he turned over the card in his hand, his veins were sent into a state of shock. For this was no ordinary Chocolate Frog card. In fact, it wasn't one at all. John had just bewitched it to look like one.

Because the long, pale face staring up at him, smiling with pearl‒white teeth showing, dashing cheekbones supplying the outline of his head, was his own. Even the minute details on the gift made his eye color pop out, and it enhanced every curl growing from his skull. From the ribs up on his body was visible behind the golden picture border, and the moving image of him was dressed in a black blazer with his white shirt underneath, his Christmas scarf tied around his neck to add the final , he began to read the words inscribed and typed into the refined paper under his gleaming face, printed in stunning ink.

_Sherlock Holmes: January 6th, 1981 – Present_

_Sherlock Holmes is most known to this day as a consulting child. He currently attends Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry as a mind_ _‒_ _blowing Ravenclaw,_ _even if he may think the Sorting Hat placed him in the wrong house. And even if people call him 'freak', they're all missing the point because his best friend, John Watson, has stuck with him since the very beginning, and he doesn't believe a word those teasers say. Because there is proof, not only from his Gryffindor friend, but from his others as well, that Sherlock Holmes has a heart._

Words were lost and out of the world as he stared down at his little Gryffindor. So brave and so strong, exposing what he claimed was the truth right before his eyes. Because he couldn't say it out loud yet, he had planned his saying carefully and sketched it out for Holmes to read instead. Sherlock's mouth just hung open, and before he had time to act the blond had pushed up onto his toes to entangle his friend in a loving birthday hug.

The emotions were taking over Sherlock's body as he hugged John in tightly, and he couldn't help but let tears spring from his eyes as his best friend cried too.

"Don't think you mean nothing to this world," John told him, rubbing his arm up and down Holmes's back. He sniffed loudly and had a terrible voice crack in his next sentence. "Because you by yourself mean the world to me, Sherlock."

Sherlock had never felt so emotionally moved in all his life, and John nuzzled his nose into his collar bone. His wet tears stained his shoulder, but the twelve‒year‒old didn't care one bit; that's what laundry was for. He removed one of his glued hands from John's muscular back, snaking around his hips to lock onto the Gryffindor's hand. He squeezed it securely, never wanting to let go of the warmness it gave off or the softness of his palm.

John breathed heavily in quick, small gasps, almost coughing because of the overload of tears. He gulped, bringing himself to be able to speak. "I‒I love you, Sherlock…"And the birthday kid planted a meaningful but light kiss on the side of Watson's shaking head.

"I love you too, John. You're my best friend."

And this time, he truly meant what he said.

* * *

"Why can't I do it!"

John sat on the floor not‒so‒gracefully in the Room of Requirement, legs sprawled in front of him while he leaned back on his elbows. He had failed another attempt to conjure a Patronus while in the presence of a dementor, and this time it really got to him.

He bent his knees into his chest and rested his elbows on them, taking in deep, fresh breaths and twisting his head from side to side. He tapped his wand on the calf bone of his right leg and scratched his hair in annoyance.

"What did you expect, John?" A small yet thick candy bar was thrown at him. John picked it up off the shiny floor and sniffed it, then gave Sherlock a look of bewilderment.

"Chocolate?"

"What?" Holmes replied, shaking off the Gryffindor's remark. "It has been proven to help wizards in chases of shock."

"I'm not in shock!" John blurted back, but he relaxed his hard eyes and took a bite out of the chocolate bar anyways.

"Well, would you rather have chocolate or a shock blanket?" That comment silenced the Gryffindor.

"You have to be overpowering, John."

"What?"

"Power..."

"I'm lost..."

"Don't be," Holmes told him.

"Okay..." but he still shriveled his brow in hesitation.

"Look," Holmes continued, obviously aware that Watson didn't have the slightest clue as to what he was trying to refer to. "Two things are possible. Either you're not thinking of a strong enough memory, or the boggart is still just plain scaring you."

"I'd say choice two is more accurate," the blond agreed. "I've had plenty of happy things happen recently to consider using to conjure my Patronus."

"But it's never impacted or got to you like this before." Sherlock stopped pacing the floor, his Ravenclaw tie dangling over his shoulders and the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up. The grey sweater he wore was wrinkled at the bottom of his waist, but he didn't bother to fix it.

"Hang on," John wondered, turning his head to the taller boy, "how come all the sudden I'm more frightened of them than you were originally at the beginning? I mean, whenever I try to protect myself, I just become rigid and can't move for some strange reason. Why?"

"That," Holmes began, and John prepared himself for a devastating response, "is a very good question that I don't quite know the answer to."

John let the weight in his entire body take over and he fell back against the floor, his spine extending one vertebrae at a time. He carefully considered the hardness of his skull and settled his head softly onto the cold tiles.

And then the conclusion hit the detective's compacted brain filled with valuable information and Holmes understood, not completely though, for the answer involved emotions. "Sentiment," he stated, "must be."

John didn't move a muscle for quite a long time. One could have mistaken him for falling asleep with his eyes open if possible, except for the occasional blinking of his eyelashes and folding of his fingers. But then slowly he lifted his head a few inches off the floor, staring up at the genius as if he'd proved an important point. "Yes..." The word slipped slowly from his mouth, and he knew it was time to tell his friend the real truth, all the facts included. "You're quite right..."

"Why?" the taller boy asked, hands pressed together against his face.

John pushed himself back up into his sitting position. For a moment he just sat there, eyes narrowed and his head tilted slightly to the right, clearly showing that he wasn't skilled at exposing this sort of thing out to someone. Quite frankly, he wasn't 100% sure how to address the incident.

His mouth was open just a smidge, but no words or sounds escaped from his lungs. Finally, he got side‒tracked on the conversation but made sure to get to his point eventually. "Sherlock," was all that came out, and he paused once more. "What do you,  _feel_ when a dementor is attacking you?"

This puzzled the consulting child more than most of John's questions had. Thinking deeply and extracting thoughts from the back of his brain, he supposed, "Well, I sort of feel like I'm empty. I get shivers down my back and I can rarely focus, which is unheard of in my standards."

"Same," John informed him, ignoring the last boast Holmes had announced. "And I also feel my body go weak all over. There are some differences though. One is that I, for some unknown reason, go rigid when it advances on me and I can't function properly."

"One?" Holmes spotted the angle at which his friend was heading towards. "What do you mean there's more than one difference? What else is there that you're not telling me? John..." The name was called at the end of his rant with determination, and the athlete couldn't hide it any longer.

The Quidditch Seeker stood up just to pass some more time and debated how to talk to a boy who didn't understand sentimental relations yet. Taking a deep breath, he said, "I don't know what it is, or where it comes from, but I hear a sound inside my head."

Now this fact really stumped Sherlock. At first he just contracted his eyes at the shorter boy, but then he violently shook his head and asked, "What?"

"Whenever I go rigid, depending on the situation I hear a sort of noise in my head. The first one was...I'm not positively sure, but I think it was some sort of explosion."

 _Explosion?_ Holmes thought, flabbergasted. But he caught the blond's words and backtracked to dig deeper. "You said 'the first one,' so there's another..."

"Y‒Yes," his buddy stumbled, clearly wishing Sherlock didn't spot the catch. "Whenever I don't hear the loud boom, I hear a more common noise. It...it's a voice." He added a quick source of information before Sherlock could input his ideas. "Only the voice is yelling and it grows louder as I become weaker. And..." He stopped to try and swallow the lump in his throat, "it's your voice."

He looked so afraid, like he was destroying the Ravenclaw with every letter of the alphabet he used. When John looked back up from staring down at the floor, suddenly the brunette had mysteriously drifted his way over to the tall, vertical mirror in the corner, his hands in his pockets and his head bent over with low spirit.

He forced himself to glance up at his delicate reflection, all the while commenting on how his skinny body resembled a twig on a tree branch.  _I'm so thin..._

Sherlock didn't know it, but John had secretly noticed too. The occupied first year, the one who performed dangerous experiments at home and made deductions by looking at people, stood staring back at himself, shaking and almost malnourished.  _No wonder John's so concerned about my health,_ Sherlock observed.  _I almost look like a skeleton..._

 _I_ _‒_ _I hate those creatures. I can't stand this anymore with them sucking the life out of me. All this, me losing weight. Not because I'm not eating, but because they're the ones who're making me feel miserable._

"Sherlock?" John had spoken his name in a whisper, seeing his own shape outlined over the Ravenclaw's shoulder in the glass. "What do I do?"

"I can't explain the possible explosion, John." He sulked, staring down at the floor since he couldn't look at himself any longer. "I suspect your brain is playing tricks on you and it's flashing memories from your father's military service at you. That's the only thing I can come up with. I can't work out how that can happen though..."

"And the screams?" John questioned, shifting his weight so he tried to make Sherlock look at him in the mirror. "Sometimes it gets so bad I feel like you're actually crying out or being tortured because of me..."

But Holmes wasn't listening. He wasn't paying the slightest attention to any word that dumped from John's lips.

"Sherlock," John said, raising his voice a little louder and his tone became sterner, "what's happening to me?"

And without warning, Sherlock suddenly yelled out in rage. He let out a scream, but unlike the one in John's head it was with a force of anger. And with a swift movement of his arm, the Ravenclaw's clenched fist collided with the mirror's surface, skin against glass.

And his skin busted open the moment he punched his own face in the reflection.


	19. Rise Above

** Chapter Nineteen **

Rise Above

* * *

He had been hit so unanticipated with a storm of boiling prejudice swarming in his veins that he had no choice but to let his body act on its own. The urge to express his hatred in an overbearing way grew like wildfire without stopping, sparks spreading to catch more trees in the forest on fire, eventually burning the whole habitat to its roots.

Not only had the force of the impact cracked the glass, but Sherlock had also imprinted a dent in the layer underneath his reflection. He was not only furious with himself for being so stuck‒up over the past few days, but he was also fed up with having to suffer through passing those soul‒sucking creatures on a daily basis.  _Who cares about the threat of an Azkaban breakout? There's no need to bring those monsters to Hogwarts._

John had been smacked in the face with such trauma that he completely got side‒tracked about the shouting in his ears during the presence of a dementor. His hand flew up to his open mouth like a magnet as he stumbled over his own feet, bracing one hand on the floor as his bottom almost touched the ground. However, he did let himself sink onto the cold, tiled ground as his wrist twisted awkwardly underneath him. Sherlock was already kneeled in front of the broken mirror.

"S‒Sherlock…" John spoke his name in a whisper, stuttering as he began to rise off his feet, slowly releasing the pressure from his shoes. Despite the Gryffindor speaking his name, the Ravenclaw wasn't paying much attention to anything aside from the oozing, warm blood flowing between the gaps of his fingers.

Sherlock was doing his best not to act weak and let tears flow from his watering eyes, but the stinging in his hand tissues was burning, and he cradled his right arm in his lap. He put weight onto his palm to cease the bleeding, but it only increased the sharp prickle and sunk the glass deeper into his skin.

He bent over to curl into a ball, squeezing his eyes tightly and shifting his hand to rest between his legs. John's hamstrings felt like wobbly jelly as he attempted to stand on his own, bending his flat back forward in order to regain his balance. Breathing out small pants, Watson warily tiptoed over to the huddled twelve‒year‒old, nervously extending his elbow out in front of his chest.

"Sherlock…" This time John's voice was lower in volume but higher in pitch. He squeaked, resembling the weakness of a mouse as his feet barely bounced a pitter‒patter off the polished didn't stir or flinch when John's rough hold was firm on his shoulder next second, and he unwillingly opened his eyes to scrutinize his injury.

John could tell where the glass had drilled and burrowed the most into the back of his hand, because the scarlet liquid poured uncontrollably from the small bumps near the soles of his fingers.

_I must have broken a few fingers. Maybe even broke my entire hand if the impact from the blow was strong enough…_

John was right up against his friend now, trying to stare into Sherlock's averting eyes with one knee tucked up into his side. He pressed a hand to the opposite end of Holmes's chin, forcing the boy to turn his head towards him.

_I have to stare into his expressive eyes. I have to look into his blue,_ _galaxy_ _‒_ _swirling irises…_

But he couldn't bring himself to do it. For another searing pain shot through his arm and made his heart skip a beat, and his mouth let out a whimpering noise as his face contorted in agony.

"Sherlock!" John's free arm had wrapped halfway around his collar bone line to embrace his damaged friend in a partial hug, doing his best to hold up the larger body. For a boy of his age, being the height he was, John had immensely strong arms from previous years of playing Muggle sports back home. Their state of loneliness reminded the blond of his injury after his opening Quidditch match.

"Shh! Shh…" he comforted, his second shush coming with less demand than the first. "Stop," he ordered, removing his hands from the boy's back and weaving them in to grab Sherlock's bruised hand, "you're just going to make it worse. Let me see."

Sherlock refused, shaking his head back and forth as dripping tears flew off his bold cheekbones. "Sherlock," John warned rather forcefully, "let me see."

Slowly, hesitantly, Sherlock grabbed his bashed up hand in his other and pulled it from its hiding place. John somehow was not disturbed by the sight as he determined how bad the cuts were. Shards of glass had wedged their way in between the gaps of his fingers, and a scar surely would form diagonally across his palm.

 _He's pale,_ John noticed.  _Side Effect. Too much blood lost in a short time._ "Jesus," he commented, tilting his head from side to side and spreading out Sherlock's fingers to prevent further harm. He set Holmes's shaking hand down on his thigh, then patted him on the shoulder while he stood up.

"Don't move it," he told the eagle forcefully, who immediately tried to release some of the pressure. "Don't touch it either." Watson made sure he was clear by pointing down at his wrist area before turning around to pace the room.

He stopped approximately seventeen feet from where Sherlock was curled up, sighed, and closed his eyes.  _Okay…_  He set his mind on what it was he desperately needed.  _All I need is a first aid kit. Something that will help with Sherlock's injury._ _That's all I need._

And when he opened his eyes again, a small red and white box had appeared out of thin air in the direct center of the room. Shuffling over, he snatched it up and unhooked the latch, pulling back the lid to reveal the contents inside.

"Okay," he said, setting the box down at his feet when he returned to the boy at the base of the mirror. There was a pile of broken glass around Sherlock's figure, and John saw his own cracked reflection stare back at him before he set off to work on the boy's hand.

"You know what, I'm going to move you," Watson said, changing his mind. "Come on." He extended his hand to help support the brunette to his feet, and Sherlock's arm folded into the crease of his hips as he rose up from his sitting position.

The Gryffindor kept a light hold on the end of Sherlock's blazer sleeve as he led him over to stand up against the wall. With his index finger vertical, John rotated his knuckles on the spot, clearly signaling for Sherlock to turn around. Holmes pressed his back to the wall, and then sank to the floor as John pointed down.

Watson sat with his legs crossed next to Sherlock's outstretched legs after retrieving the first aid kit from where he'd left it. "Alright," he started, handling the eagle's arm with wariness and pulling it towards him, "I need you to stay as still as possible. You flinch in any unnatural way, something could go wrong. Try and keep as still as possible. The more you stay still, the quicker we can get through this." He sounded so calm and acted like he was a professional; like he'd done the tending job hundreds of times.

Sherlock nodded, bracing himself for the small bolts of pain to surge through his hand every time John plucked a piece of glass from his skin. The well‒experienced healer rummaged through the box, pulling out a pair of tweezers, a small towel, and an ace bandage for the final instruction.

As painlessly as he could, John used the tweezers to extract the glass dug into his fingers and palm, occasionally glancing up to check on his friend. Once he pulled too hard and Sherlock gritted his teeth as his skull bumped against the wall, his neck cracking to expose his Adam's apple. "Sorry!" John almost shouted, quickly grabbing the towel to dab at the wound, which had opened and began to bleed freely.

"You okay?" he asked, apologizing for his mistaken actions. Sherlock nodded, being strong through the entire process and barely crying at all. Tear tracks from earlier stained his face, but he showed no sign of letting more water slide down his cheeks as John continued on.

When Watson had finished, he handed the towel over to the Ravenclaw so he could wipe his sweaty skin. He had a small paper cup full of the tiny specks of glass taken from Sherlock's hand next to him, and he emptied the plastic first aid kit to use it as a container. He scraped up the broken mirror from the floor using a couple gauze pads, double checking to make sure he cleaned up every last shard.

"Stay right there," he said, coming back over to where the Ravenclaw sat. "And keep pressure on the wound. Even though I know you don't want to," he blurted, before Sherlock could protest. "I'm going to the nearest bathroom to grab some cold water, okay? I'll be right back." His voice lowered, and he left Sherlock's perfect, left hand falling slowly to the floor, out of his own smooth touch. His hand fell away from John's but remained in the air for a split second before landing delicately on his bent knee. John walked away from him and left him alone, closing the door gently behind him as he exited the Room of Requirement.

Sherlock stayed right where he was and marveled at the spectacular work John had done on his hand. Only a few scratches remained and indeed a scar was already taking shape over his bone. He secretly promised in his mind not to mess with the injury while his lion was gone, and so once in a while he peeled back the towel from the cuts just to stare at its healing progression.

John didn't return for quite some time. Sherlock was beginning to contemplate that he'd forgotten about him and went back to Gryffindor Tower, but nonetheless he remained where he was. He told himself he wasn't going to move repeatedly in his mind, knowing this time he wouldn't deceive his best friend.

" _Accio_  watch," he said, pointing his wand at the bookshelf on the far wall. He'd read multiple books on advanced spells, and this one he considered would be important and useful in the near future. The watch zoomed through the air in his direction, as if an invisible string was pulling it from out of the end of his wand. It landed with control on his lap, and the time told him that John had been gone for almost half an hour.

And then a new sound dawned on him, coming from over near the cozy beanbag chairs in the far corner. He leaned forward in his seat to try and get a better look. Located in between the cushions, Watson's PocketSneakoscope he'd received for his eleventh birthday was spinning miraculously fast on its own, rotating atop its point while lit up by flashy lights. The red, orange, and teal colors had all whirled together in the circular maximum capacity of the top and whipped through the air.

The noise of it gliding over the floor was obnoxiously annoying, so Holmes tried to concentrate on the ticking of the watch hands beating against his leg as a distraction. He snapped out of his mind palace incidentally when he heard the click of the door handle for the third time that day.

He kept his eyes closed for a few moments, just absorbing the sound before wanting to expose them to the world again. One thing bothered him.  _There's the sound of two sets of footsteps._ Sherlock yanked his eyes open in confusion to figure out who'd returned with John.

It was Mycroft.

"What'd you bring him for?" Sherlock complained without hesitation, and Mycroft sank into his hip and glared at his younger brother. "He's not supposed to know we've been in here, John."

"Why do you think?" the Gryffindor replied, denying the fact that he'd really gotten Mycroft to spit the truth out of Sherlock.

"Dear Sherlock," Mycroft teased, umbrella tapping on the floor, "you can be such a burden sometimes."

"Right back at you."

"Alright!" John cringed, his hands molding into fists, "I didn't bring you two here to bicker at each other!" He stopped and heard the faint buzzing the Sneakoscope was giving off, then pointed at it and looked for help from Sherlock.

"It just started to go off on its own," he told him.

"How exactly did you say this thing worked?" John asked, picking it up off the floor and feeling it hum and vibrate in his hand.

"It's supposed to light up and spin when someone untrustworthy is around." Watson looked mildly confused and shook it, but the gesture had no effect.

Sherlock scanned the room with his eyes even though he knew they were the only three people standing in the wide open space. "It's you!" he suddenly spat, pointing to Mycroft from three feet high off the floor. His back grew to stretch out, giving his prefect brother a gasp look on his face.

"What are you talking about?" John sighed, letting his arms drop to his sides.

"That thing started going off when Mycroft entered the room! You're the criminal person! You've been causing trouble all along!"

"That's a highly strong accusation to blame me of," Mycroft sneered, crossing one foot over the other. Both siblings gave each other displeasing looks. All three of them were silent until a thought suddenly crossed John's mind.

"Can't be," he butted in, "Mycroft was around when you gave it to me. It would have gone off back at your home."

The fact left the various aged students in silence. "Then…who is it?" Sherlock wondered.

But as he tried to make deductions, the Sneakoscope shuddered in John's hand and died, becoming still and falling silent. "Maybe it's malfunctioned," he muttered, throwing it onto the close‒by cushions like a paper plane.

"Right, okay Sherlock," John brushed off, turning to face the Ravenclaw, "let's finish patching up your arm." Sherlock felt uncomfortable with his sixteen‒ year‒old brother in the same room as him and secretly glared as Mycroft from across the room.

"Show me," John said, beckoning with his fingers. The bleeding had died down, leaving a red stain on the towel, but John nevertheless wrapped the wound neatly in a bandage with some extra gauze pads.

"There!" he exclaimed, satisfied with his healing skills. "Okay, now I have to deal with you two…"

"Deal with what?" the brunette said, refusing to get up off the floor.

Mycroft strolled in to tower over his family member, John standing to his left. They looked extremely funny next to each other, as Mycroft was a full foot taller but Watson definitely claimed he was tougher. The shrimp stood on the balls of his feet, arm crossed as they closed in on the boy in the blue and bronze house.

"Sherlock," John cleared his throat, "no excuses. I want the truth from you. Why have you been acting up?"

There wasn't a peep from the older first year. John had to ask a second time. He wasn't going to back out until he got a proper explanation.

"Why did you smash the mirror?"

* * *

John adjusted the strap on his school bag as he strolled into the Great Hall for lunch on Friday. Lestrade and Molly had abandoned him after Herbology class chatting freely together, so he made his way up to the castle on his own.

He was tapped on the upper arm unexpectedly however and whirled around to see Henry Knight. "Hey," John said, not planning to bump into him, "what's up?"

"Hey John," Henry greeted, trying to match the pace of his strides, "I wanted to ask you a favor."

"Sure. Shoot."

"Molly told me about your meetings Sherlock arranges every Saturday. She said you guys learn how to produce Patronuses. I was…wondering if I could join?" His voice was shaky and he tended to shuffle his feet every few steps.

"Yeah, that wouldn't be a problem. I'm not surprised she told you, and you're a trustworthy person. You'd be welcomed to join us," John assured him, slapping him on the back. "I'll talk to Sherlock about it. There's no way he would deny your request."

"Great, thanks!" Knight hoped Watson would have a good day and dashed off. John couldn't help but smile; their group was growing stronger. Just one more member to be a friend of Sherlock's.

"Hey John!" Someone else was calling his name, and even though the student was older, the blond also knew his voice.  _God, I'm popular today,_ the athlete boasted thoughtfully. He turned around to see the Gryffindor Quidditch team captain Anthony Greyskir sprinting over to him.

"Hi," John replied when the sixteen‒year‒old reached his side.

"Everything alright?"

"I guess you could say so. What're you so excited about?" John questioned, seeing the childish grin spreading on the boy's face.

"Great news," Tony began, sliding his hand up and down the front of his robes, "we're in for the running to play in the Quidditch final this year! Just hope Hufflepuff makes it a close game against Ravenclaw. Sorry, I've gotta dash. Catch you later!"

"Oh, okay!" John chuckled, finding the news thrown at him to be exciting anyways.  _Hmm…_ he considered.  _The good side, a Quidditch final! Imagine, holding a trophy in the air! The bad side however…_

_Practices three times a week again. Ugh…_

* * *

Sherlock had delightfully agreed to let Henry Knight join their practice group, so now six first year students stood inside the depths of the Room of Requirement. Four boys, two girls. Three Gryffindors, now two Hufflepuffs, and one Ravenclaw. Henry felt stupid as he gaped at the open space which had materialized from thin air. The rest of the friends walked in as if they'd known this their entire lives, and they split up in synchronization towards their practice corners of the room.

"Alright Henry," Sherlock addressed him, coming over to pat the Hufflepuff near the neck. Henry's large, floppy ears went bright pink, and the heat radiated to his cheeks and forehead. "Since we've been going at this for quite some time now, I want you to stand in the middle so I can get a good look at you. I'll need to explain some very important concepts as well." Knight nodded and went to make the fifth and center point of their stance shape.

"Right," Sherlock exclaimed, stepping away to the far end of the room to get everyone's attention, "just remember to keep your focus. Your Patronus, corporeal or not, will only protect you for as long as you concentrate on your memory. You may begin whenever you're ready!"

Instantly, four bodies turned to face inside the square, revealing wands from beneath their robes and planting firm positions with their feet. Henry remained where Holmes had ordered him to stand, his stick of wood dangling by his side and fingers tapping on the thigh of his leg.

Lestrade went straight to work, considering he'd missed the previous lesson thanks to Snape's dreadful detention. He'd been demanded to scrape out all the dirty cauldrons from the last class on Thursday afternoon, making sure not a drop of potion remained in the contents of the bowls. Greg was down in the dungeons for four and a half dreadful hours before heading straight up to Gryffindor Tower to do his Potions homework he had for that first weekend back. It doubled his fury with the head of Slytherin house. First detention, then a two page essay.

Since Christmas was his favorite time of the year, Lestrade tried to pick out a happy memory he recalled over the holidays like a child does when choosing a present. He'd had a jolly season of giving, but he didn't believe anything could match up to the night he danced with Molly at the winter dance.

John had about as little trouble as he could have at his first attempt at the charm that Saturday. Settling on the first time he'd produced his protector as his stimulant, he raised his stick of wood and shouted,  
" _Expecto patronum!"_

As if it was let out of a cage in an animal shelter, John's wolf sprung out from the end of his wand. It bounded around the ankles of Molly Hooper, who had stopped to stare at the groomed fur. Henry Knight also got distracted from Sherlock's rant and watched John direct his wolf around the room. The Quidditch player simply looked like an enthusiastic toddler playing fetch with their pet outdoors.

"And that's what a corporeal Patronus looks like." Sherlock dodged and flexed his conversation around to fit the current situation which was taking place. Henry pointed a finger at the blue and silver mist darting around the room on its bounding paws. "So, that's what my Patronus will look like as well?"

"Well, not exactly..." Henry's level of hope dropped down almost halfway. "Yes, it will be some silver and blue animal, but not a wolf. Your Patronus resembles your personality. Take John's for example; he's a very brave and loyal person, and so is a wolf. Therefore, his Patronus reflects who he is as a student."

"Oh, okay. I understand now."

"Good. Now, this is the basics of casting a Patronus charm," and Sherlock went on to rant about how it was almost physically impossible for wizards to cast it on their first attempt.

" _Expecto patronum!"_ It was Molly's turn to let her swan leap gracefully from her wand. It flew through the air, weaving between the other practicing kids. John saw the remarkable creature and flicked his wand again. His wolf sprouted its head, torso, and hind legs as it came out to join Hooper's bird.

The swan began to circle the ceiling, opening its transparent beak and letting out silent calls. John's wolf jumped up and down on its back legs, trying the best it could to reach the fellow Patronus. The only result it had was landing softly on its four paws next to its owner.

The dog would have let out a pathetic moan if the spell was able to give off audible sounds, and it sat on its bottom, head turning in circles to follow the flying bird.

Lestrade sure got a shock when he managed to collect a happy memory and shout out for the whole room to hear. " _Expecto patronum!"_

Similar to John's wolf, Greg's Patronus grew a long nose with visible whiskers poking from its snout. Fierce and inch long teeth grew from the gums of its open jaw, and small, fuzzy semicircles rose from the head to give it ears.

No one could tell what his Patronus was until its full body squeezed out of his wand, revealing the last bit as a long tail. Molly was the first to step to it and concluded to the rest of her friends that it was a mountain lion.

With the two four‒legged Patronuses side by side, there were considerable differences in the two creatures. Watson's wolf was by far larger in the stomach area, whereas the mountain lion was almost as skinny as a twig, its ribs showing under the thin layer of fur. The wolf perked up its pointy ears when it saw a new animal had joined the fray, and John laughed at the spell's interaction. Molly lost her concentration when she saw Henry's depressed attempt to produce the charm, so her swan faded and vanished as she turned her head away.

"Mary!" Sherlock's voice ultimately boomed through the room, and both John and Lestrade turned to stare.

A silvery doe had gracefully grown from the end of her wand, bearing the same large, blue eyes Mary Morstan had herself. The spell was only brief, and it died off as she felt the entire room watching her, all pairs of eyes fixedly focused. She felt too much pressure, but she now knew she was able to conjure up one of the most complicated spells in the history of magic as her animal faded into a blurry clump of nothing but air.

* * *

"Are you ready?"

John let out a long, drawn‒out breath, bouncing back and forth on the padded parts of his feet. Once again, the banging boggart in the wardrobe stood in front of him, ready to attack and make him pass out.

"Sure," he said, but gulped and felt the opposite. Unsure.

"You sure you can handle this?"

"Just pull the latch!" John blurted. "I want to get this over with…"

Sherlock nervously moved his eyes over the floor, hoping John would be okay in his situation. "Okay, ready? One…Two…Three —" A single swift movement of his arm made the doorknob rotate 90 degrees, letting it swing open on its hinges.

The cloaked creature exposed itself quicker than it ever had before, and John focused on nothing but Sherlock and his silver wolf Patronus. " _Expecto patronum!"_

The shield began to grow in size and sprout from the end of his wand, creating a barrier the size of an archery target to ensure his safety. His spell faded away in a flash when he felt the dementor pulsing against the silver mist, and suddenly it was four feet in front of him.

And then there was the sound of an explosion. A cry of agony blared in his ears, and John not only sank to the ground on one knee but also let out a small yell himself. He covered his ears from another crashing blast, but it did no good as the noise was only in his head. It wasn't enough to block out the roar into a humming whisper. He remained strong and fought to stand back up on his feet, preparing to fight against the creature.

The screaming was beginning to come back in his ears. He tried to block it out, but it just grew louder and fiercer with each glide the dementor took.  _No, not John…Leave_ _John alone! He's all I've got!_

John was trembling from head to toe as the real Sherlock remained where he was, not the fake one, watching and observing the shorter boy failing to act. He wasn't going to jump and help yet, not until the Gryffindor was practically on the verge of real danger.

_Stop! I'll do anything! Anything! Just leave John alone!_

" _Expecto patronum!"_  The blond'sPatronus was only a tiny speck of light this time.

 _John, run! Get yourself to safety!_  "No…" Sherlock, standing by the side of the scene, stood frozen, watching John react as if the noise in his ears wasn't false. It was as if the room had faded from John's view and he was standing in a completely different atmosphere. The spark was set off, and the detective knew he had to be an impact sooner than later.

_JOHN!_

"Sherlock…" At the mention of his low‒moaned name, Holmes climbed out of his daze and casted his own incorporeal Patronus, sending the boggart back into the wooden closet." _Expecto patronum!"_

"STOP!" John was screaming now from his kneeling position. The yell was blurted so energetically that it made the brunette flinch from the breaking agony of it.

Holmes's shield wasn't as big or wide as John's but it nevertheless protected him from harm. He slammed the door of the wardrobe shut and gasped massively, allowing the room to refill with a warm breeze. Making sure the lock was secure, he rushed over to the crouching Gryffindor, calling his name in a determined way to attract his attention.

"John! John..." He beckoned him to come back to the world, slapping the younger boy's chubby cheeks. "John, can you hear me?"

But the warmness hadn't returned to the lion's veins and the cries were still ringing faintly in his ears. His body was so weak he was unable to hold his wand, so it slipped from his fingers and rolled a few inches away. It was miraculous that he was able to prevent his pupils from rolling into the back of his head.

"Sherlock…" It was his last whisper before his head brought his full weight crashing to the ground, and John shriveled in his Gryffindor uniform as he was knocked out, blond hair flattening against the crown of his skull.

* * *

"John….John…"

Silence. A soul‒sucking dementor during one of their practices had never scared him this bad.  _Never._

"John!" Sherlock was shaking the blond, who was still out cold from the fright of the hooded creature. He'd passed out about twenty minutes ago, and the side effects were quite significant this time. He should have been awake a long while ago, but he must have been sent into a deep feeling of emptiness.

Watson came back to life and groaned, rolling his head to the side and causing all the weight to sink into the floor. His blue eyes slowly opened, adjusting to the fuzziness of the world around. A hand was felt on his lower back, helping him to sit up.

"Here." Something was shoved into his fumbling hands, bouncing off his arm and landing in his lap. It was almost embarrassing; he couldn't even find the strength to pick up an object that weighed less than a pound. Whoever it was that sat next to him stood up and began to pace the floor, taking long strides and mumbling under his breath.

The shorter boy finally found himself back in the Room of Requirement, lying about ten feet from the banging back and forth on his sit bones,he picked up whatever had fallen onto his stomach, discovering it was a milk chocolate candy bar. Instinct took hold and he unwrapped the golden paper protecting the sweet from dirt and dust. His teeth sunk into the brown squares, and he switched his gaze to rest on Sherlock.

"How many times is that now?"

"That you've collapsed in front of a dementor? I'd say about nine now." The fairly new detective wasn't paying attention to his friend and continued to walk, deep in his own sighed, running a rough hand through his blond locks. Face contracting, he stuck up for himself and asked a killer question.

"Why haven't you shown anyone your Patronus?"

The echoing footsteps stopped, hitting Holmes like a bolt of lightning.  _Now is not the moment to ask that, John. You just passed out for heaven's sake._  He tilted his head as if in bewilderment, and then added, shamefully, "Because I've never produced a corporeal Patronus before."

It was true. He hadn't. And to admit it to John, John Watson, the bold‒hearted Gryffindor, was just plain and downright unacceptable. Of all the things he couldn't do, which that category was finely limited, he never found it harder to tell the lion than what he just did.

John halted in mid chew, staring up at Sherlock like he had two heads. In the end, the only thing he was able to come up with to remark back was, "What?"

"My Patronus hasn't taken the shape of an animal yet…"

"Then keep practicing!" John encouraged, springing up onto his feet but swaying when brown circles were littered in front of his eyes. The chocolate bar fell from his hand and landed with a soft  _thud_  on the ground. Sherlock rushed over cautiously, bracing a hand on his buddy's collar so he didn't stumble over."I'm fine," the little boy replied, trying to shoo him away.

"No," Holmes said blandly. "You're not recovered enough to carry out with your normal activities. Sit," he ordered flatly, sounding much like the younger student.

 _Stop using such advanced sentences, Sherlock,_ John grumbled in his mind. He sank down onto the tiled floor anyway as the Ravenclaw's palm pressed him downwards, teaming up with gravity.

Even though he was down on the ground, that didn't mean he couldn't interject his opinions. His cheerful self returned in less than a second flat, and his beautiful eyes lit up with encouragement. "You've got to get it soon! Come on, you can master any spell faster than anyone I know. Maybe one last burst will set it free." Sherlock slowly shook his head, backing out of the situation.

"But I've never seen your Patronus," Watson pleaded, giving Sherlock the puppy dog irises. "Of all those times we practiced together, you always made me do it."

His wand was out of the pocket of his dress pants unimaginably faster than John could blink, partially to make the eleven‒year‒old shut up and the other half to prove he couldn't master the spell. " _Expecto patronum!"_

Sherlock was right. It was nothing more than a shield surrounding him with its wide circumference. It was of course a powerful shield, taller than John himself in height, but nothing more. "See!" Holmes pointed after his spell had died away, "that's all it does."

"It's my turn to play the teacher," John said, straightening up a little taller. "You're not thinking hard enough."

"Copy cat."

"What?"

"That's what I always say to you."

"Just try it?"

"Why?"

"Because maybe you'll have a corporeal Patronus!" John suggested, shrugging his shoulders and flipping his palms up to face the ceiling. "Please? For me?"

"Fine," Sherlock muttered.  _What the hell am I supposed to think about?_

And the invisible light bulb went off above his head as the appropriate memory crossed his mind.  _Of course…After all these months._  It had been staring him right in the face;right to the edge of his sharp cheekbones. How could he not have realized?

And then he raised his wand, and the memory was so powerful it brought a wide and unthinkable smile to his lips. " _Expecto patronum!"_

A sharp point was the first to emerge from the wand's tip, forming the end of a bird's beak. Feathers grew out of the top of its head as it flew out of the end of Sherlock's wand, blue and white sparks flying near its great wingspan. Claws with thick nails dangled loosely below its belly, tucked in a proper flying position when in the air.

Small flecks of blue dots framed the edges of the smoothly‒feathered wings, resembling fire and ashes; for this creature was born in such a place, and it flew through the air around Sherlock, majorly being welcomed into the wizarding world.

Sherlock watched his newborn phoenix soar through the air, landing without a sound on one of the chandelier handles. It dove down toward the floor not long afterwards, spotting a friend on the ice‒cold floor. John had joined in with his wolf.

The bird stopped on the floor in front of the other Patronus, and the dog couldn't help but sniff it with passion. "They have healing powers you know," Holmes commented, nodding his head over to his bird.

"Really? Well, good to know. Might come in handy someday," John inputted.

"And where exactly are you going to find a live phoenix?"

"Haven't the faintest." Sherlock chuckled.

The producers of both charms stood four feet from each other, watching their creatures interact with each other. All four of them stood in the shape of a square, humans next to each other and animals across from them. At the exact precise moment, both heads turned to stare at their rightful owners, and Sherlock saw John smile out of his peripheral vision. Their pets were watching them with the man's best friend stare. John's wolf almost looked like it was smiling, and Sherlock's bird's feathers were handsomely groomed to match the brunette's good‒looking appearance.

The phoenix and the wolf. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.


	20. Final Impressions

**Chapter Twenty**

Final Impressions

* * *

As the weeks went by, late March faded into early April, and the light breeze that stroked the castle windows rose in temperature steadily. Lestrade joked on April Fool's Day that Professor Snape was out with a back injury, but John had to resist the urge to chew him out and swear when they walked into their last class of the day to find the vampire‒resembling teacher sneering at them all from behind his front desk. By mid month, Sherlock was conjuring his Patronus out of thin air as easily as scripting his name on parchment, and together his phoenix and John's wolf would dance through each other as if the two animals were pals in reality.

John went back to having Quidditch practices three times a week and occasionally would return to the Gryffindor common room to find Lestrade waiting for him. There were two options when this occurred, as John had used Sherlock's deduction skills to confirm this; Greg either was finishing up homework he hadn't bothered to complete earlier, or he claimed he couldn't sleep. John semi agreed to this fact depending on the day, because indeed one of their roommates tended to snore. It kept the Gryffindor awake some nights, so he would sit in the frame of the moonlit window, sometimes stroking his owl Athiel or curling up to read an entertaining novel.

It was towards the end of one of these Quidditch practices that Anthony stopped his team from changing in the locker rooms. "I'd like to make an announcement," he explained, lengthening his spine to its full extent and acting like a king.

"Look, we get it," Heather Dagmarc interrupted, flattening her scarlet robes so she could sit on the bench. She tried to mock the captain as the other six players acknowledged her attention. "We don't need another lecture on how we need to be 'the team to beat' this year. Practically everyone is rooting for Ravenclaw to win in the finals, but they'll only make it in if Hufflepuff brings the game on."

"And that's my point," Tony injected, pointing his finger at her slouched body. "While you all haven't heard, or I assume you haven't cause nobody's mentioned it but you Heather, but Ravenclaw is in fact in the final this year. Hufflepuff only lost by thirty points, which doesn't enforce enough for them to be in the final."

"Please." Chad O'Brien spoke up now, leaning against his vertical broom that stuck into the dirt. His hair was dirty blond and ruffled in the back. "No one ever expects Hufflepuff to make it into the Hogwarts Quidditch finals."

"Hey, they did a few years back," Greyskir told them all.

"By pure luck!" the Beater Chad argued.

"That's a lie! They almost won too. Slytherin only defeated them by two scores. So don't underestimate the badgers. You have no idea what they can or can't do." Riley Sherman rolled his eyes, snickering and clearly unimpressed with the yellow and black house. "I'm not going to allow Ravenclaw to win this year. We need to be the ones to beat them. We lions have to beat the eagles. This might be my last chance to win the Cup —"

"But you're still here for another year," Kelsey Monts commented. "We could just win next year."

"Good god you all are not being optimistic right now!" Tony bellowed, throwing his hands into the air.

"Yeah, come on guys!" It was Finn McKorrick's turn to speak up, his heavy Scottish accent ringing in the air. "We've all worked so hard! We're not just going to waste this opportunity. Besides, if Ravenclaw's the favorite this year, then we'll just have to show the school how tough we are."

The captain's hand flew out to indicate his Chaser's common sense. "Thank you! And come on," he continued, his loud voice lowering, "we've got a rookie Seeker. No one else does!"

"Uh, Slytherin does," John corrected him, pointer finger held up to prove the fact, even if the Slytherin team was out of the tournament.

"Whatever. My point is, we're in the final, we are going to play Ravenclaw, and we're going to win this thing!"The spirit in the changing room lifted and all three Chasers rose to their feet, jumping up and down in intimidation and pumping themselves up.

"Now hold up!" Fred yelled, waving his hands wildly. The whoops and noises died down, but the Chasers continued to hop on their toes, paying attention to their sport captain. "We still have two weeks till the game, so let's continue to stay focused, have energy, and play like a team! Alright, good job today everyone. Let's get changed and head back up to the castle."

John took his time slipping off his Quidditch robes and swapping them out for his plain black ones, glancing up occasionally as his teammates vanished from the depths of the tent, heading back up to Hogwarts. Tony Greyskir was surprised to see Watson still sitting on the bench when he came out of his dressing space, the Golden Snitch flying in front of his face with transparent battering wings rapidly beating.

"John?" The Seeker didn't move. He continued to stare at the tiny golden ball, examining the precise details revolving around its center.

"You okay, John?" the older Keeper tried again.

"Yeah. Just a bit stressed is all." He sniffed in his nose to breath in some of the fresh, early spring air.

"Why's that?" John was silent again."Oh, sorry. I guess it's personal business." His apology wasn't needed however.

"No no, it's fine. Just trying to figure out how I can cope with it all."

"Can I ask what you're stressed about?" Anthony sat down next to him on the bench.

John racked his brain, thinking about all the various mixed‒up events that were occurring in his school life. "Well, I guess it's mostly just homework. All the teachers have been giving out mounds lately because finals are coming up soon, and plus I've got Quidditch on top of that. I think there's something wrong with my best friend too. I just can't figure it out."

"Have you tried talking to them about it?" Tony suggested.

"Yeah. I even got his brother involved, and that didn't work out too well. And what if I choke during our final game or something? People might think I'm a joke…"

"John, stop." Greyskir shifted on his bottom and stared at his youngest player directly in the face. "You are not going to choke. You've helped us to win every game this year. Don't let the end get to you." With that he stood up and slapped Watson encouragingly across the back. The last of the trim on his black robes flew around the corner of the domed entrance, and then a short breeze was felt inside the tent as the Gryffindor Keeper vanished.

John sat licking his lips and pondering his situations. Stumped, he untied his shin guards and placed them in his compartment, then grabbed his bag used for sports and headed back up to Gryffindor Tower, alone.

* * *

It was a week and a half later that John returned to the common room after ten o'clock in the evening to find Lestrade hunched over a Chessboard piece. He was the only one seated in front of the red and orange fire, and the Quidditch Seeker slowly proceeded to join him.

"Lestrade, what are you doing?" His hand ran over the fuzzy lining of the armchair.

"I'm trying to do my Transfiguration homework!" he grumbled, scratching his jet‒black hair, which stuck up in endless directions.

"So?" John said, as if it was a piece of cake. "All you have to do is turn it into a thumbtack..."

"Yeah well, I can't do it!" Greg's tone was beginning to bubble and Watson could tell he was getting worked up over a tiny magic spell.

"Hey, don't worry about it," John assured him. "Why are you doing this now anyway?" he wondered, sitting on the arm of the chair. "It's late. Besides, we don't even have classes tomorrow. Just relax. You can watch the Quidditch game tomorrow, and then later we'll practice Patronuses. Just forget the homework for now, okay?"

The idea of going upstairs to sleep was glorious to Lestrade.  _Stupid spell,_ he thought.  _I'll deal with you later._  "You're a saint, you are," he said, giving John a pat on the back," making me not have to do this."

He picked up the black Knight Chess piece and threw it across the room. It landed on the table in the far corner but kept sliding until it took a swan dive off the board. "Ah forget it," he told John, who had turned to pick it up. "Let's go to bed, I'm tired."

John followed the taller lion up the stone steps to their dormitory, and the two boys cautiously and as silently as possible tiptoed around in their room, aware and alert not to wake their fellow mates. John slipped into his pair of striped pajamas and climbed into his soft bed under the duvet. Within minutes Lestrade's deep breathing was heard to his right, but John remained awake for a few more hours, staring blankly up at the ceiling and wondering what the next day's outcome of the final match of the season would be.

* * *

In the morning John woke to find fair weather conditions for his Quidditch match, and he dressed casually in a pair of navy blue sweatpants and a red and black striped shirt for the short time before the game began.

As he made his way down to the Great Hall for breakfast, he spotted all the students wearing different colors to which team they'd support. If not all but most of the Slytherins were wearing blue and growled at the Gryffindors whenever one passed. Hufflepuff house was almost divided in half with supporters, but John entered the dining space to a small burst of cheers and claps from his friendly housemates.

He grinned, walking down the center aisle and taking a seat at the far end of the hall. A mysterious pair of hands draped a Gryffindor flag over his shoulders, and the sports player accepted it to show his spirit. Someone was instructing the scarlet and gold students to give the first year Seeker some space, and John thanked whoever it was by nodding and holding up one of his hands. Lestrade was already seated and stuffing his face with food, clearly having had a good night's sleep.

"Need a good breakfast today," he explained, intentionally flicking his fork at him. "It's the most important meal of the day." John knew he said it just to copy him, maybe even to irritate him.

"Very funny." The blond took a seat across from the other Gryffindor, finding that Sherlock was nowhere in sight, not there to greet him like he did every morning.

"You ready?" Greg asked, slamming his palms onto the table and making the orange juice in his goblet spill over the rim. His ridiculous grin came back to stare Watson in the face, and the little lion was forced to agree.

"Hell yeah!"

"Alright!" he beamed, leaning in for a high five. Lestrade's appetite was dominating and he went back to chewing his waffles. John decided to settle for some eggs and toast, something light but would keep him going throughout the game. He had a glass of milk waiting for him to chug his breakfast down, and he ended up with a tooth nerve freeze for nearly gulping the source of calcium down in a time of less than ten seconds.

"Tell him." A low voice grumbled over John's shoulder, and he spun around to find Sherlock sitting at the Ravenclaw table. No one was within four feet of him, and John didn't understand the demand. He acted normally and fired back a question like he'd been chatting away with Holmes for hours.

"Tell who what?"

"You know what I mean."

"No, I really don't."

"You've never noticed after all this time? I'm surprised I didn't. God, it's been months now —"

"What the hell are you talking about?" John was getting a little ticked off now.

"Lestrade! He's holding his knife the wrong way!"  _Just, what the hell, Sherlock?_ Watson swore in his brain.

"Jesus…" John rolled his eyes at the unrelated Quidditch reference and off topic deduction. "That's what's been bothering you?"

"Shut up." John giggled and grabbed his upper arm as the Ravenclaw started to turn away.

"Why aren't you sitting with us?"

"There are too many people around. I can't bear to have people staring at me right now." Sherlock took a large bite out of what looked like a small omelet, and John settled the matter by suggesting an idea.

"I think I'm receiving the most popularity at the moment."  _Like I need any,_ he quoted, the pit of his stomach suddenly lurching downwards. "Do you want to head down to the field now? I don't mind."

"Just get me out of this crowded space," Holmes pleaded, and John grabbed him by the wrist as he stood up.

"Wait wait wait," the Gryffindor with the black hair questioned, mouth full of crunchy, chocolate chip waffles. John answered before he could ask 'where are you going?'

"We're heading down now," John said, thrusting his thumb to the hall's exit.

"Why? We were going to start a celebration. A party!" Greg smiled and shrugged his shoulders innocently.

"You can start and save the celebration till after the game," John chuckled, switching his attention to his only Ravenclaw friend. The twelve‒year‒old followed the shorter blond like a coasting ocean wave, John crunching on a buttered piece of toast as he strolled from the dining area.

"You okay?" John asked, closing the great front doors of the school. The late April wind brushed his blushing cheeks, and he suddenly regretted just a touch why he was eating his first meal of the day.

"Yeah," Holmes lied. "Just a little claustrophobic is all. I can't stand the amount of stupidity that was exposed in that room."John laughed and nearly spit out his food. He coughed a couple times before swallowing his toast, blinking back tears in his eyes and avoiding the gurgles to escape from his throat. He finished off the last of his breakfast and rubbed his hands together, the crumbs spilling from his fingers.

"Well," John cocked his head, bringing up a known fact, "I can tell you now that a lot of us players are going to make stupid mistakes today."

"You're not though." Watson stopped in his tracks, as Sherlock had a few feet back. The large crowd of students accompanied by professors was making their way down to the field walked snail‒like over to his little buddy, who stood staring at him in shock and error, trying to absorb the information into his mind all at once. A light hold was felt on his wrist, and he looked down after knowing that feeling for months.

"To be honest," Holmes said to him, and then leaned forward to whisper into his ear. "I'm rooting for you."

John swayed on his heels and leaned back a little in misconception, glancing up at the curly‒haired Ravenclaw. He stuttered, failing to find the right words. "You…you're not going to root for your own team?"

"I'd rather support someone I care about than a whole team I don't know." Man, did that make the lion's heart race. Holmes had to make the Quidditch Seeker snap out of it, and once he'd accomplished his task they were able to continue with their stroll. He led John down to the changing tent with his hand buried deep in his pants' pockets, and he stopped at the entrance to turn and face the athlete.

"Good luck."  _There's the squeeze I've been waiting for._ John smiled and his hand floated up to rub against Sherlock's smooth face. The brunette grabbed John's palm and expressed love with his bright green eyes. Before John headed off to change into his Quidditch robes, he ruffled Sherlock's curls just for fun.

"Thank you," he whispered.

* * *

"And here come the players to begin the Hogwarts Quidditch final!" Sally Donovan's strong voice echoed over the microphones surrounding the stadium, and an explosive roar blinded the players' ears as both teams came sprinting out onto the field. Every seat in the stands was full. Even students who hated the sport had shown up to watch the thrilling matchup between the two houses. And then again, John didn't understand how people could've disliked Quidditch.

"Today, we're about to witness a thrilling clash between the Gryffindor lions and the Ravenclaw eagles!" The players in the scarlet and navy blue robes rushed to meet each other in the center of the pitch, and Madam Hooch stood guarding the chest full of athletic equipment. She was dressed in her usual black robes, and as a referee she never sided with any of the teams in particular.

Anthony Greyskir shook hands with the Ravenclaw captain, who politely wished him good luck, and he returned the acknowledgment. Madam Hooch ordered the captains to rejoin their squads, now facing towards each other with the entire school bouncing in their seats, waiting for the final game to kick off.

"Now, just like all others, I want this Quidditch final to have good sportsmanship." Madam Hooch was stern as she gave her spiel to the fourteen players. Two of the Ravenclaw Chasers exchanged giggling looks, and John knew exactly what they were thinking. _There hasn't been a clean Quidditch match in history…_

"Players, mount your brooms." All the students, from ages eleven to eighteen, short or tall in height, swung their legs over the handles to grip the brooms under themselves. John felt a light breeze brush over the wood of his protection pads, and he briefly checked the sky to find that clouds had hovered over the stands, leaving darker shady spots at the bases of where the large posts surrounded the field. There was one advantage for a Seeker when clouds littered the sky, and that was the fact that John didn't have to squint minimally in order to seek out the Snitch.

The disadvantage to playing under clouds was if it started to rain. Droplets of water would pour from the concentrated white clumps, soaking the scarlet and royal blue robes and making them heavier in weight than they already were. Watson didn't fancy having a hefty cape tugging on his collar bone, pulling him further down to the earth and slowing down his racing speed. Not to mention the stinging water entering the gaps of his eyes and falling off the individual strands of his blond hair.

Madam Hooch, acting as the fair judge of the game unclasped the locks on the school trunk to release the lethal Bludgers and the Snitch into the air. John got one snapping second to hear its fluttering wings beat before it flew off to hide from the stadium's view, never to be seen under a Seeker held it in their hand to claim the glory for their team.

The adult tucked the Quaffle under her left elbow, closing the trunk skillfully with her foot and facing the young teenagers. "You may now kick off the ground," she informed them, and in individual groups the members of both teams dug their cleats into the grass in order to shoot off like rockets into the late morning air.

The fans got excited and were exuberant before John had a chance to fasten the position of his feet onto his broom hooks, supplying them in a snug space. Sally Donovan's voice was almost dominated from the eruption of shouts primarily from the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws, but she was yelling into the microphone with two hands cuffed around the announcer.

"And the players are lining up! Madam Hooch is about to begin the game!"

"Donovan!" A new, fierce and womanly voice entered the stream of the noise, and John concluded that it was Professor McGonagall. "Do lower your voice! We don't need the surrounding countries to hear you!"

"Sorry, Professor…" John looked down at the ground to find the referee standing directly in the center of the painted white circle on the field, rubbing the Quaffle in her gloved hands. There was a quick peek from Watson as he watched his enemy Seeker across from the circle of players. She was a very pretty girl, a fifth year who was fifteen going on sixteen with long, flowing, glossy black hair and stormy grey eyes. She'd pulled back her mane in a tight braid with a dark blue ribbon to tie it off on the end.

A flying red sphere whizzed through the center of the kids, blocking John's view of the girl in her colored robes. All was silent as the school leaned in to discover who would intercept the playing ball first. That is until Donovan cut in to boost the suspense. "She's thrown the Quaffle into the air. They're itching to tackle each other and retrieve it."

"Donovan…" Professor McGonagall's voice was a whisper but the microphone absorbed the noise and her name was heard anyway. Tony was inching his way around his defending goalposts without anyone noticing, and the Chasers exchanged sneers all in the span of a fraction of a second.

Madam Hooch blew a hard exhale into the opening of her whistle, raising her arm into the air to give the players the starting signal. "And the game is underway!"

John commanded his broom to fly upwards and yanked the hilt away from the mob of cat‒fighting teammates. His brain knew the safest route was to avoid jumping into the traffic jam, so he shot up in height to circle the stadium and gain a better view. The Ravenclaw seeker had embarked over to the far corner near the Hufflepuff benches, stuck out like a sore thumb among the mass of yellow and black. John kept his ears peeled for updates on the score, swinging his legs in boredom while searching for the Snitch.

A loud outburst resembling a tiger escaped from the Ravenclaw stands, and John muttered a few angry words under his breath to tell his team to do better. "It's thirty to zero, Ravenclaw," Sally announced, and the groans and boos grew from the scarlet and gold supporters.

* * *

Sherlock pushed his way through the crowd of superexcited Gryffindors, getting smacked in the face by small flags and banners people were waving to root for their team. His two friends were located in the front row of the lowest bench with a large sign nailed to the outside stadium wall underneath, bearing in curly letters the message,  _Let's go lions!_  Lestrade had his Gryffindor scarf draped around his neck, wearing a matching t‒shirt that showed off his chest muscles. Molly was at his side, waving a small flag she'd borrowed from a friend and jumping up and down, her ginger ponytail twirling like a whip around the circumference of her skull.

Sherlock ducked his face around Molly's dangerous hair, tapping her on the shoulder to get her attention. "Hey Sherlock!" she smiled, lowering the rectangular flag to her side. Greg hadn't noticed and was yelling at the top of his lungs.

"Hey John, catch the Snitch already!" He had his hands cupped around his mouth to project the sound, but there was no way the blond would be able to hear his friend's rants.

"Calm down you," Holmes lectured, rubbing the kneaded muscles in Lestrade's upper back. "Don't be surprised if he doesn't catch it for a while," he informed the buff boy. "No doubt if this game continues for another ten minutes a storm with boil up," he grumbled, watching the grey clouds monopolize the white ones.

Molly twisted her neck sideways to see Hagrid at the end of their bench, taking up what would have been about four student seats. None of the surrounding kids were frightened by him, simply because they were too lured into the details of the match to pay attention. The tallest of the three amateurs took out his pair of binoculars from his back pocket, zooming the lens in on his best friend high above. John was drifting from side to side, scanning the skinniest spaces the Snitch could squeeze into.

* * *

But that's when John saw it. Lingering near the Ravenclaw goalposts about four feet to the left, the Golden Snitch glinted in the only remaining sunlight rays left peeking through thin gaps divided in the sky. He dove, plastering his chest to the handle of his broom and racing to catch the sports ball before it dodged out of sight. His rivalry Seeker was delayed in finding that he'd seen the Snitch, but she too flew after him when she felt the rush of wind as he passed graze her face.

It was hard to stay focused with hundreds of students yelling, urging him on, but all that mattered was him catching the Snitch, earning his team an extra hundred and fifty points to win the Quidditch Cup. John was praying with all his strength that the Snitch wouldn't skid around his outstretched arm, but there were no promises ever when trying to catch a ball with a diameter of less than three inches.

John flicked his hand forward, compressing his fingers closed like a lobster claw. He felt the crusty surface of the Snitch's wing before it gave a tremendous tug out of his grasp and sped away. Cursing, he snapped his fingers in vexation and then widened his eyes in alarm as the stadium wall was coming closer and closer.

He swerved and diverged his body weight in the opposite direction to avoid slamming into the barrier. His right foot touched the wall delicately and he pushed off with ease, heading back into the function of the game. The blond Gryffindor shifted up a few yards to ignore the bellowing Slytherins behind his back. His hearing picked up that his team was now within twenty points of tying the game, but he considered the only hope for his team winning now was if he ended the match.

Suddenly there was a rumble that shook the ground, and simultaneously Ravenclaw missed a shot on the center goal hoop, blocked by the enemy Keeper. "Crap," John muttered, tightening the strings that held his cloak together. Freezing water droplets drained into his blond hair, and the atmosphere rearranged as students tried to keep themselves dry under whatever they could find. The clouds had cracked open from the expanding water pressing against their silver borders, and John flung the rain from his forehead.

Lightning flashed across the sky, causing many kids below to freak and scream out in terror. Madam Hooch's whistle rang out over the startled voices and loud bangs, and John assembled with his team down on the ground as they took a timeout.

"Jesus, this is bad luck," Anthony yelled over the powering wind, and Heather joked around by pretending to take a shower in the rain. She scratched her damp hair and massaged her scalp, feeling refreshed after partially playing a tough game and sweating it out.

"Alright, I can barely see in this downpour," Sherman told his own team.

Greyskir brought on his captain voice, watching Finn McKorrick graze his side. "If you just keep the Quaffle down near the Ravenclaw goalposts, we should be able to hold their lead. You doing okay, John?"

"No, not really," John spat out, shaking his head as rain coursed through the gaps in his teeth. "I almost had the Snitch! I could've ended the game earlier if it hadn't slipped out of my grasp…"

"It's okay," the captain promised him, slapping his youngest player on the arm, which resulted in a squishing noise from the rain drenching John's robes. "Just do your best searching for the Snitch and end this game as quickly as possible!" There was frustration in his tone as he bellowed over the pounding wind.

"Alright, let's go! Let's win this thing!" Chad O'Brien was still pumped up even after forty minutes of play, and the team huddled up to get back in the game.

John's tiny hand was stacked in the middle of the pile of arms, and they chanted out loud before splitting off into the stadium once more.

"Ready?" Tony led the spirited chant. "One… Two…Three, lions!"

Mud kicked up from the earth as John's cleats jumped into the air. The bottom hem of his Quidditch robes were stained with wet dirt, and the weight from the rain soaking in his clothes made it harder to fly at his supreme speed.

There were more rumbles of thunder, and John held his arm over his head in his dormant stance to act as a shield to crystallize his vision, but there was no effect whatsoever.

* * *

"Seriously, can't they delay the match or something?" Lestrade held a large Gryffindor flag over his head like the Grim Reaper's cloak, and Molly leaned against the wall with her hands covering her mouth.

"They can't do that unless the weather conditions get extremely severe," Sherlock explained as the rain traced the outlines of his precious curls. "Why the rain had to strike now, I don't know."

Molly shuddered and brushed the excess water from her yellow poncho. "I think I'm going to head back to the castle," she told the boys, shoving her head in the direction of the school where some fans had sprinted back for recovery.

"Oh, no you aren't," Lestrade rejected, grabbing her upper arm. Molly frowned and was forced to stay for the remainder of the game, but the space around them became more open as kids ran for cover.

Sherlock's binoculars had fogged up so he couldn't follow his best friend up in the sky and see all the features on his face. John was having trouble controlling his broom against the intensity of the wind gusts, and Sherlock flinched every time he slithered with his grip.

* * *

The slippery, polished surface of the broom handle was too much to take in, and in one wrong and terrifying moment John lost his grip. He did an uncontrollable somersault in mid air, fortunate to keep one palm connected to the handle of his broom. His right foot remained hooked on to the secured strap, but he had to hang on for dear life as his fingers fumbled on the wood.

A lot of people in the stands had noticed and were pointing up at him, one being Sherlock Holmes in particular. He was grabbing fractions of his own hair to keep himself from crying out, and he mumbled little begging thoughts to make sure his friend didn't suddenly topple off and fall freely to the ground, surely the end result being death or serious injury.

Of course, Watson had to make the wrong decision and stare down at the ground, and he gulped a few times in fear. His cape fluttered as the wind picked up ferociously, and he stared up at his clinging hand as if to ask it to stay attached. Using his muscular strength in his arms and abs, John gathered enough endurance to hoist himself back onto his broom, breathing heavily.

"John!" Someone on his team was yelling his name, but it was blurred out by Sally Donovan entertaining the crowd with some emphasizing commentary.

"JOHN!" He whipped around to see Riley Sherman stopped in his tracks, his Beater bat slung against his thigh. Kelsey wasn't far behind him, waiting for a pass of the Quaffle from a teammate.

"WHAT?" There was no other option but to shout back.

"Get your act together and catch the Snitch!"

"I'm working on —" He was cut off by a blinding flash lighting up the sky, nearly making him go blind as he batted his eyes and saw clumps of glowing lights. And John saw the imprint of the Golden Snitch hovering above the elongated flag on the teacher's stands. He immediately headed for the sky, trying to make his broom go faster in the pressure from the downpour.

His neck rotated around to see the Ravenclaw Seeker not ten feet from his tail, but he continued to urge forward with haste. His right arm extended out to grab the Snitch and close the game…

"AH!" Another bolt of lightning came down from the clouds overhead, nearly missing John's elbow by a few inches. It almost brushed his skin and he could feel the heat from the electricity in his blood. His greatest relief was that he didn't somehow manage to fall off his broom. With one last ravening thrust of his arm, John's fist enclosed around the lumpy sphere of the Golden Snitch.

It took his teammates quite a few moments to recognize that their Seeker and youngest player had the game‒winner clasped in his hand, but they were aware when John flew down from the blurred view screaming excitedly.

"I got it!" John gripped his broom between his knees and held both fists in the air in a triumphant manner. Madam Hooch's whistle blew one final time before John screamed again. "It's in my hand! I've got —"

Too late. From beyond the mist, Chad had jumped on top of him, nearly knocking and toppling him over. Next second, Heather and Finn lifted his back up to sing happily, and his entire team made a small bubble around him.

"We've won the cup! We are the champions!" Anthony Greyskir was so happy tears had sprouted from his eyes, and John thought it was hard to tell if his was crying from the rain dotting his face. The three Gryffindor Chasers were cheering and making howling noises, and the Beaters clunked their bats together to make clicking sounds.

He was embraced in an endless fray of hugs, and someone ruffled his hair to mold in the shape of a mini Mohawk. Slowly, the team lowered to the squishy ground where a mass of lion housemates had gathered to join in on the celebration.

John managed to break free of the pairs of hands tugging at his uniform, and he was thrilled to see Sherlock, Molly, and Lestrade skipping over to where he stood with his adorable smile on his face. Sherlock's strides served as an advantage, and the taller twelve‒year‒old had his only friend locked in a hug, absorbing the soaked clothes but not caring in the slightest. A brilliantly colored Gryffindor flag with a lion was glued to his sticky back, and he grabbed it in his fists to embrace the two first years in the winning symbol. "I'm so proud of you," Holmes muttered in their circle. "You're the main winner today."

Teachers ran about, setting up the ceremony of the Quidditch Cup final as hastily as possible, and Sally Donovan's voice still echoed over the megaphone. The Ravenclaw players came over to congratulate the number one ranked team, shaking hands with all the players, and John switched the Snitch to his left hand as he greeted all the students in blue robes, commented on how remarkably some of them fought it out till the very end.

He kept that Snitch. He never told anyone but Sherlock and Madam Hooch, who he'd asked to keep in his possession before burrowing it in the depths of his scarlet robes. There was no way he could throw away or abandon the memory of catching the Snitch in his first Quidditch final of his career.

The lions assembled onto the podium where Albus Dumbledore stood, an umbrella protecting his long beard from the rain, half‒moon spectacles perched on the bridge of his crooked nose with the Quidditch Cup standing by his side. The mob of interested students crowded at the base of the stage, getting as close as they could to catch a glimpse of the glossy, silver trophy.

Professor Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts, announced the year's Quidditch Cup winners, and delightfully handed the prize over to the captain. As Anthony showed it off to the world, the fans showed their approval by shouting as loudly as they could over the noise of the booming storm.

One by one, the victorious players lifted the trophy above their heads. Some kissed it with thanks, and other shook it back and forth in gloriousness. John, being the shortest team member and the last in line, was handed the trophy by Heather Dagmarc, who also passed on her smile to his lips. He took the cup by the bumpy handles, and with such a beaming sensation filling his heart, he raised it into the air above his head as a mass of monumental emotion wiped over his body.

If only his parents were there to congratulate him, to feel proud about their son and his effortless work he put into winning the tournament. But it didn't matter.

Because Sherlock was there as a replacement. Leaning up against the nearest post, legs crossed, clapping along with the rest of the viewers. If only all the spotlights in the world could be directed onto the everlastingly astounding team, then the school could really pick out their talents.

"This calls for an after party!" Chad and Kelsey chimed in on their way back up to the castle, and the Gryffindor players were dragged along in the crowd back up to their home common room.

It would've been the best festival ever, drinks, food and all, but only if Sherlock Holmes was there to share it with his only best friend.

* * *

"What's on your mind?"

John Watson lounged back in a purple lounge chair, flexing his tired muscles in the Room of Requirement about a month later. Piles of books were scattered on the reflected floor, and Sherlock stood gazing out of the window that looked down to Hagrid's cabin. His question had come with curiosity, and the older friend rubbed a tiny section of his bent elbow.

No answer was received, so John set his Hawthorne wand on the floor by his knees. "Is this too much studying? We can stop if you want to."

"No, it's not that," Sherlock promised him. Over the past few weeks their professors had pounded them with stacks of homework to complete each night in preparation for their upcoming end‒of‒year finals. "You enjoy it?" Sherlock switched subjects, and John's brow shrunk in puzzlement.

"Enjoy what? Studying? Don't even get me started…"

"No. Not having Quidditch practices anymore?"

"Oh! Yeah, I suppose so. I kind of miss it," Watson admitted, but on the other hand was glad he didn't have to deal with the extracurricular activity. "I'm happy but sad at the same time. I mean we won, I no longer have to worry about it, yet I feel like some monstrous weight has been lifted off my chest you know?"

The only part of Sherlock's body that moved was his left eyebrow, accepting the statement.

"You getting any better with your Patronus?" John asked, tracing the outline of a fungus stem in his Herbology textbook.

"Mhmm," Sherlock hummed.

He'd stopped thinking though and narrowed his eyes, watching the edge of the Forbidden Forest with convergence. For he thought he saw an unfamiliar shadow among the border of the Gamekeeper's pumpkin patch, and he tried to look more closely.

"Sherlock?" John's throat let off a sort of squeak, rising in pitch.

 _I'm not crazy._ He had seen something, because slowly from hidden in the darkness a mysterious figure trotted out from the depths of the trees. It was only enough for the suspicious boy to take in the shape for a split second. The noise interrupted the alarmed look on his face as his name was repeated.

"Sherlock?"

_I thought it was gone. I thought it didn't exist. I thought it was just a trick._

Hidden and melting back in the shadows was a gigantic hound. Sharp claws visible from a significant distance away, cold, black fur growing all over its body with startling, burning red eyes.


	21. Targeted Victims

** Chapter Twenty‒One **

Targeted Victims

* * *

The reluctant blond was practically sliding on the soles of his red All Stars as the Ravenclaw dragged him through the castle corridors. Sherlock was pulling his friend along by the end of his robes' sleeve, and the smaller boy was trying to avoid the brunette from hauling him into possible danger.

"Are you insane?" John questioned, doing his best to slip his wand in his pocket. "We could get into serious trouble!"

Sherlock let go of John's robes and swiveled around to face him, hands in flat 180 degree angles to prove an excuse. "John, how could I ignore this?"

"No!" Watson did his best to extract Sherlock out of it. He sounded like an adult, stern and fierce with demand. They were in the entrance hall now, and the shorter student regained his balance after tripping on the last marble staircase step. "I am not going to let you wriggle into this one, Sherlock!"  _Uh oh...John didn't like that. Bad move. That was stupid, Sherlock. Why did you do that?_

"It is almost sunset and I don't fancy getting caught crossing risky borders or lines at this time of day." The younger boy's hands were on his hips now, giving the eagle a flatulent and presumptuous appearance.

"But, wait..." Sherlock stopped and the unknown evidence grew more false before his eyes the more he thought about. The lion cut him off before he concluded.

"Anyway," John continued, "you can't actually prove that there was some kind of monster out in the woods. So why should we just follow it? If there's nothing there, then we'll go out there for nothing. Either way it's pointless."

"But John, something happened to me." He sounded fooled, crushed in a way.

"Yes. You were scared. Sherlock Holmes got scared. I saw you with my own eyes. Don't deny it; yes,  _you_ can get scared."

"No John, it was more than that." The Gryffindor's head was thrown forward as the Ravenclaw pulled him in closer with a tremendous force. "It was doubt," he explained, seeing the blank look on the boy's chubby cheeks, "I felt doubt, John. I've always been able to trust my senses, the evidence of my own eyes until tonight."

"Like I said, you can't believe you saw some sort of hound —"

"No, I can't." John's twisted brain just got even fuzzier as Sherlock cut him off. "Wait," he rushed, thrusting a finger at his buddy, "you said hound. Bit odd isn't it? Why say hound?"

"It's just another name for a dog, you prat." The blond's use of a rude name made the eagle open his mouth in awe. After he'd gotten over their rough second with intensity in the shorter boy's tone, he was able to fire back a few repeating questions with the same pronunciation he always had. "But the question is, how?  _How_?" He was really emphasizing the significance of the single‒worded wonder.

The younger kid shrugged his shoulders and tilted his head on his neck. "Yes." The thought was more of a deranged exaggeration. "Well, if you've got something to go on with, good luck with that." His Gryffindor cloak swayed in the bubble of wind he'd produced as he turned on his heel, and his silent feet carried him over to the base of the staircase.

"John!"  _There he goes again, trying to convince me to go along with him and cause trouble._ "Come on! This could be our first real chance to have a shot at solving a mystery. Isn't that what you've always wanted?"

The lion froze in place, one foot glued to the bottom step and his head bent down in consideration. "Vaguely so," he muttered. His arms moved to rest on his hip bones, and he couldn't believe how foolish he was and how easily it was for the detective to lure him into his trickery. "Fine," he particularly sided, rolling his palm in a smoothing motion. "But don't blame me if we get into trouble!" he called afterwards, pointing his index finger threateningly at his friend.

"Excellent," Holmes smirked, his British accent popping out. "Come on. Allons‒y!"

"Or perhaps Geronimo," the blond additionally shared.

* * *

Sherlock closed the front doors of the castle as unnoticeably as possible, and John kept a close distance from his back. His Hawthorne wand was in his hand, friction being rubbed between his twiddling fingers and his pulsing palm.

"You seriously think we can get to the forest without anyone noticing?" Watson asked as they were halfway done with crossing the emerald grounds. The sun was setting just beyond the horizon near the treetops, painting the sky with shades of pink and orange. The crescent moon was parting from the distant mountains, rising in the sky to look like a silver mouth amongst the evolving stars.

"Doubt it. There's a 75% chance or greater that someone will find it suspicious. Just keep moving," he beckoned his short friend, and the lion turned his back around to walk while keeping a watchful eye on the school.

"Screw this, run!" Sherlock suddenly blurted, and John found himself huffing with a great effort to keep up with the brunette's manly strides. He eventually started skipping to see if that would make him go faster, but it was no use. He only caught up to Holmes after he'd stopped at the edge of the rows of trees.

"Will you slow down!" the blond proposed, but Sherlock had his Phoenix core wand in his fist and ordered his loyal companion to stop.

"Shh!" Holmes froze, and next second John found himself flattened against the trunk of the closest tree.

"What are you doing?" he squeaked through rasping chugs of breaths.

"Shh!" The detective's hand flew to cover John's mouth, but the eleven‒year‒old figured out what was wrong about their situation on his own using clues. Cutting off his heart‒pumping spasms, both boys listened in on the forest surroundings. John's hand snatched hopefully at the tree bark, hearing a soft pounding and prancing noise off in the distance as Sherlock clutched the front of his Gryffindor cape.

A low growling was heard just beyond a different group of trees, blocking the evidence of a hound from view. Sherlock's eyes grew in alarm, and John miraculously cut off his terrified gasps to prevent them from the risk of danger. He made faces behind the older boy's hand, looking like he might be suffocated and pass out.

 _Pat...pat...pat..._ Slowly, the sound of the monster's footprints faded till nothing was heard but Sherlock's heart beating under his rib cage. It was a good long while before his firm grip loosened from John's Gryffindor outfit and the shorter boy was able to act on his own again. John remained compressed against the tree trunk, his head falling to the right to try and curl his hearing around the cylinder shaped branches.

He gave Sherlock a look of pleasure and insanity as his bony fingers released from the small chips in the crumbling and chipped bark. "I got your back," Sherlock explained, letting his Sycamore wand trace the outline of John's lion badge.

There was only the need for a short and simple response. "I know."

* * *

Ensuing losing sight and sound of the dog, Sherlock suggested that they abandon their current spot and move on to try and dig deeper into the growing mystery. After some time with much convincing, John agreed to follow Sherlock into the darkness of the Forbidden Forest.

" _Lumos_ ," the brunette murmured, and the tip of his wand illuminated to ignite a small ball of light. The clouds above in the twilight sky were beginning to clump together and grow in packs, clogging the stars from view and leaving a patch of coruscation where the moon was blocked.

Sherlock was clever to stay within earshot of Hagrid's cabin for the time being, but the luring tether pulling him closer to whatever the mysterious monster might be grew and sprouted invisibly from his pelvis. The temptation to sprint and gain as much evidence as possible was too much, and surely John would block Sherlock's persistence as long as he could with his noble personality. Using tricky skills, his brilliant brain wandered them off farther onto the pathway meandering between the trees, which progressively curved to lead away from the forest's edge. John didn't notice, considering that he was preoccupied with the slightest crack of a stone or the crunch of the pine cones under their shoes.

They explored for a good length of time and therefore Watson checked the time on his watch as his legs grew tired. "Sherlock," he whispered with ease, "we've been walking for nearly half an hour."

"So what?" Holmes retorted.  _He's kidding, right?_ "I'm not leaving till something exciting happens," he continued, secretly reading John's mind.

"Seriously though, what if we get caught?" John worried, ripping a twig off a nearby tree like a pipe cleaner. "We could lose house points, be given a detention, possibly expelled —"

"Will you stop worrying?" Sherlock blurted, his glowing charm reflecting off the trees around their huddled bodies. "No one's going to be out this far into the forest at this hour."

"But we're not supposed to be in here, that's my point!" Watson bickered, feet sinking into a small patch of mud.

"John," Sherlock spoke, making his point heard, "if you didn't want to get into trouble, you wouldn't have followed me out here. You would have ran straight back up to Gryffindor Tower, leaving me to my own business."

"That's not true," John argued, puffing out his chest. "I could have made you stay with me back in the entrance hall."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Whether you want to believe it or not, John Watson can stop Sherlock Holmes." He had to resist the urge to snap his fingers at him.  _Whoa, going a bit too far there, little buddy._

"I'd like to see you try," the Ravenclaw judged, leaning casually up against an old oak tree.

"Oh I will. Just you wait. Someday I'll —"

"Stop…"

"No."

"No really John, be quite!" The indication in his tone was serious yet petrified, so John's mouth was sewn shut immediately.

There was no noise to hear nor smell to be smelt. It was the touch sense that had taken action, and abruptly a shivering cold covered the two boys. No explanation was needed as they caught each other's eye contact, waiting for the dreaded guards of Azkaban to join the fray. Sherlock and John came to stand back to back, wands held out in determination as the cold became more bitter and stronger. They knew what was coming, but it was just a matter of when the unpredictable would strike that was more important.

Eventually the temperature of the compacted air surrounding them dropped so much that John could see his foggy breath puff out from his lips, and he knew that their situation was more than bad. Even the twelve‒year‒old had a panic attack, and if Sherlock Holmes was rarely terrified, something was bizarre.

It was hard to make out when the hooded creatures would show themselves, considering their wands only gave off a limited amount of light. Their elongated delay stopped as Sherlock backed into John in disturbance as a slimy hand bent around a skinny tree trunk. Fighting to find his overpowering memory, Sherlock stood with his eyes tightly shut as he buried in his mind palace to retrieve the concentrated image from its depths.

Of all the months, the weeks, the days, minutes, and seconds he'd spent at Hogwarts, he'd never truly discovered what his greatest memory was. Until the day he first conjured his corporeal Patronus, and at that point he seemed offended that he hadn't thought of it earlier. One strong‒minded person, yet so bold in appearance.

_John._

The veins in his hands bulged as he crushed the wand wood in his hold, raising his wand to shout, " _Expecto patronum!"_  The phoenix had no trouble wiggling out from the tip of his wand, and it flew with agility to drive the dementors back a few feet. The sound of his friend's voice startled him and cut off his thoughts, resulting in his bird fading from view.

" _Expecto patronum!"_  John said, but his shield folded out from his wand in the shape of a large oval. It was great in depth however, and the dementor pulsed against the silver mist but failed to reach John's quavering body. The tiny lion was able to maintain a hold on his spell, and he took steady steps forward to force the creatures away from his friend.

"John, RUN!" Sherlock yelled, breaking the connection between his thought and his phoenix once more. But John wasn't going to. Now Holmes was sounding like the sounds in his head, only real and not tortured. He waited for the convenient next line to come in his head,  _get yourself to safety,_ but it never came. He fired back with an answer after hearing an explosion ring in his ears.  _No,_ he groaned,  _not here. I'm not going to leave Sherlock now..._

"I'M A LITTLE BUSY AT THE MOMENT!" the Gryffindor managed to reply, just as his shield shrank to no longer protect him.

"Oh for god's sake." Jumping, John felt his hand being grasped in Sherlock's, and the larger boy carried him off into the darkness away from their enemies. John had to gallop in order to keep up, and his hand let go of the Ravenclaw's as they broke apart to dart elsewhere before they crashed their locked arms into a bush.

Both the eleven and twelve‒year‒old could sense the dementors following them as quickly as they could glide, and John's breath grew sharper as his legs allowed him to bolt like a cheetah. " _EXPECTO PATRONUM!"_  he shouted once more, and his wolf was finally able to escape and burst free from its hiding place as he pointed his wand behind his back. He watched the dog run and vanish over his shoulder, doing its job to protect its owner.

Looking away, John accidentally slammed into Sherlock, who had stopped because more dementors had them surrounded. Both boys fell to the ground, toppling on top of one another.

"AH!" John yelled as he was propelled down to the earth. His cry was cut off sharply as he felt something insert into his lower stomach area, and he knew he was wounded when he felt a warm liquid dripping out of his body to stain his shirt.

Sherlock returned to his feet quickly after their collision, but John remained crumpled on the ground as a cramp pained his aching side. Holmes hadn't noticed Watson didn't get up, so he returned to his spell casting business.

Sherlock's deep voice rang out in the cutting atmosphere, letting his bird fly free through the air to shoot sparkles onto the waving forest leaves growing from the branches. Several of the soul‒sucking creatures automatically fled, leaving the scene of the crime in obedience caused by his spell, but others continued to advance without harm done to them. Sherlock even thought some of them were getting stronger and enhancing their capabilities the more the duel went on. He had to spin in tight circles to observe every individual skeletal body, draped in ragged, grey cloaks and hiding their deranged faces.

"John, help me!" he complained, spotting the Gryffindor still crouched on the ground and moaning in pain. "JOHN!" he urged again, but stopped when his buddy didn't respond.

"Sherlock," he squeaked, and the intended student observed as John held a hand to his lower stomach area. Watson didn't know how he wasn't screaming out in agony, seeing as the pain felt like he'd cracked a bone.

"No…" Sherlock pleaded before John could expose the wound. One of the blond's hands held a sharp, pointy stick, and the other was pressed to a bleeding dent in his skin. John was turning extremely pale, and he sat on his own in a ball of fear. At least half an inch of the brown branch was drenched in the red mixture.

"NO!" Sherlock was so outraged he did his best to purposefully kill and destroy the dreaded dementors. No one hurt his John like that, even though he knew it was just an unfortunate accident. Dozens of the cloaked creatures were enclosing the gap around the boys, and it wasn't enough for the brunette to turn several times to watch his back.

Sherlock flung around, feeling an unfamiliar hand, or more like a claw, tugging at the neck of his robes. There was no way he would have been able to defend himself; the dementor was less than a yard from his face, exposing inch‒long fingers snatching for his wrist. The Ravenclaw bent over cowardly, his wand held out to the right and almost poking his own ribs.

Stumbling back in fright, Sherlock's foot tripped over a large tree root and he was thrown onto the forest floor in a daze. The dementor towered over his hopeless and weak figure, and Holmes blacked out as his skull smashed against the bark of the nearest tree trunk. Dirt and crusty wood scratched and painted his perfect face as it rubbed over the bumpy surface, and his mouth fell and remained open just a tad as he was no longer conscious.

"SHERLOCK!" John had managed to push and hold back a few dementors, spotting his friend out cold on the ground and the creature about to suck out his soul, despite the open cut bleeding above his hip. He was amazed at how much of his own strength he could muster after such a tragic incident. " _EXPECTO PATRONUM!"_  he shouted, really showing how furious he was, regarding the petite height of his size.

His wolf sprung out of his wand as it spotted its prey, and the dementor had no time to react as the dog bounded to charge the Azkaban guard back. The hooded figure loomed back into the shadows of the trees, but as Watson turned around to watch his back, about ten more dementors came around the corner.

"Oh, shi —" he began, but his swear word was cut off as a great howl filled his ears. The word had almost slipped from his language with leisure, and he covered his mouth in punishment.  _No, not two bloody animal monsters at once,_ he grumbled. " _Lumos_ ," he said, so his wand lit up the pathway more brightly in front of his face.

Nothing was there. Whatever dog Sherlock thought he saw wasn't in sight, and John was beginning to believe that this was a trick and none of the mess was real. The hound was just another distraction from the hooded guards of Azkaban advancing on him, and he wheeled around one more time to yell, " _Expecto patronum!"_

The dementors shrank back and shriveled behind the trees, carrying their ice cold air and rattling breathing as they went. John made sure to stay on his feet, to force himself to fight until the last creature was well out of view before fixing his attention on the Ravenclaw, goose bumps trailing on his forearms.

"Sherlock!" He didn't know why, but his exhales came as heavy gasps with much effort. Watson crouched next to the unconscious boy with his wand still lit, letting off a luminous glow to act as the moon, only positions backwards as his stick rested on the grass. Dead leaves and pine needles broke under his All Stars as his robes floated to stop on Sherlock's chest, teeth barely noticeable behind his cracked lips.

John checked and examined the damage done to his friend but found nothing to be extreme or serious in any situation. Pressing a shaking palm to his forehead, John felt Sherlock's cold skin taking over the temperature in his fingers. The shivering chill clamped around the warm, suffocating and squeezing the life out of what gave Watson whatever hope for his friend.

Panting, John lifted the eagle from the squishy ground and stood behind his flexible spine, doing his best to hoist his four inch taller friend to at least his knees. He fell over in weakness as his disadvantage punished him and shot a searing pain through his stomach, and the stick that had pierced him was tucked in the waistband of his pants.

This was too much. The only way all this was going to end was if John somehow managed to drag Sherlock out of harm's way, back up to Hogwarts while miraculously avoiding eyesight. He knew that hope would never come true as he struggled to shift him even three feet from his current position, sitting the Ravenclaw up to lay against the same tree that he'd brushed against.  _But perhaps I could reach Hagrid's?_ he thought, knowing the hut was closer and the half‒giant would surely care for them, maybe even do them a favor and keep their night secret.

What was worst about John's condition was that he and Sherlock had traveled at least a quarter of a mile beyond the forest's borders, which made his journey even farther than he'd anticipated. Panicking, he skittered over the ground in search of Sherlock's lost wand, as he'd dropped it when the dementor had nearly killed him. He almost stepped on it as it rolled over the grass when his sneaker grazed over it, and he was lucky not to put pressure on his foot and split it in two parts. He fumbled and gathered it up with shaking nerves to slip it in the brunette's pocket, hidden in safety under his robes. Surely when the curious detective aroused he'd feel the wood cramped into his sternum.

Lost unlike the consulting child would be, John scratched his blond hair and paced back and forth, the only source of light being his dim spell to expose the crumbled leaves at his feet. He bit his teeth down on his lower lip almost in frustration, now wishing their places had been switched, that he was the boy lying limply on the ground because Sherlock definitely would have known what to do in his situation.

The only way he would make it back to the castle before the night grew too fierce was if he started the long and bearing walk back as soon as possible, lugging a boy larger than his own size just for the heck of it, and of course because he totally did not want to.

There was one problem: he had no sense of direction to where Hogwarts was or how long it would take for him to get back, so if he started in the wrong way, he surely would be in trouble. Taking a wild guess, he tugged Sherlock back into his arms and began to pull him over the shadowed blades of grass.

He got about twenty feet down the road, pain and all before he was interrupted by a sound crying out in the night. Drifting and building up from over his left shoulder, a long, drawn‒out growl of a massive dog rumbled and pushed through the trees blocking its path of origin. Watson froze, feeling Holmes slouch in his stiff arms as his eyes grew in alarm and his breaths became terrified once more. Off in the distance, the hound began to bark madly, and through the gap between two dark brown trunks, John could just make out a pair of glowing, red eyes staring him down.

John dropped to the ground, knowing his choice was stupid as the dog had already seen him and probably would prance to eat him any second now.  _So it is alive,_ he confirmed. He turned his furrowed head back in the sight of the hound, only to find it still glaring at him. He really wished those hard pupils would stop searching him, bearing sharp fangs and a hard jaw line.

A small glint of moonlight fought its way to peer through the treetops, leaving the two friends lying in a circle of silvery radiance. "Sherlock..." John whispered, shaking his friend lightly in order to try and make him stir. The limp body did not move however, and the blond's faith died slightly in his heart.

Randomly, a crazy idea popped into his mind and he began to search for nothing anyone would care about when lying in the woods. He selected a rather thick stone near the base of a bush, then warmed up his arm to release the token off into the darkness, throwing it away from where he sat crouched. The stone slammed into a twig‒like tree far off near where the hound remained standing, and the dog's ears perked up as the cutting noise split through the silence.

Crossing his fingers and hoping his plan would work, the Gryffindor flattened himself on top of the eagle, waiting for the reaction from the monstrous animal. John could sense the drool suddenly becoming stagnant in the corners of the hound's mouth. For a few never‒ending moments later, the four‒legged animal sprinted off to join the dementors on the other side of the Forbidden Forest.

The sigh that escaped from his lips was probably the most relieved sound he'd ever made. He snapped back to life, turning back to the Ravenclaw to wake him up. "Sherlock," he tried again, rocking the detective a little more harshly this time. His voice shook, as he knew he was in fear and couldn't handle this without his friend. "Sherlock, please," he begged, leaning in a little closer. The small scrape on the edge of Sherlock's right cheekbone was beginning to swell and turn a painful shade of pink, the skin becoming irritated as it tried to repair the wound. John briskly slapped his friend on the neck, only wanting it to act as some signal in the boy's rouse.

And then, as if the twelve‒year‒old had woken just by John speaking his name, Holmes groaned and slowly rolled onto the right side of his ribs. John's heartbeat increased in speed as the eagle curled up into a ball, coming back to the world with a haze in his vision and feeling dizzy.

John let the waking boy stir and regain his composure before embracing him in a thanking hug. The brunette sat up in confusion, his curls messed up and falling over his eyebrows. "Jesus," the younger student mumbled, "don't do that ever again," he told the Ravenclaw.

"It wasn't my fault," Holmes argued, now able to properly function and speak like his normal, stubborn self. "I didn't have time. That dementor was on the verge of killing me!"

"You're lucky you had me around, otherwise —" The blond paused to gulp in a regretting motion, "you would have been dead."

"No, John," Sherlock corrected, shaking the curls on top of his head. The Gryffindor narrowed his eyes in a defeated and upset manner, but Holmes wasn't finished with his sentence. "I'm just lucky, glad, and thankful that I have  _you_ , period."

The sigh fell from John's lips before he intended for it to, but he went along with his mistake anyway. "Stop it you," he ordered, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's upper back. He pulled him in close but accepted Holmes's compliment otherwise.

"Come on," the older companion told him, breaking away from John's lovely squeeze, "enough is enough. I shouldn't have forced you to come out here. Let's get back to the school before we find ourselves in any more traps."

Holmes didn't get up from the ground even though he said he was, and he placed a tan hand onto John's shoulder. Dirt covered the left side of Sherlock's face, and John didn't like that it took away from his lean facial features.

"Your cut?" Sherlock asked, concern in his tone.

"It's nothing," John lied, trying to assure him and make his best friend not worry so much. He was beginning to feel hot and his vision was blurring. But the consulting boy wasn't convinced and his hand slid down the edge of Watson's robes, pulling back the black fabric from the sticky red liquid. As he observed, Sherlock concluded that the stick had grazed the blond's side diagonally, but it had twisted in to cause more damage. At least John knew what he was doing and pulled the branch out right away.

"John," Sherlock whispered, words failing him.

"I told you, it's nothing," John shook it off, but he let off another groan as pain shot through his ribs. He bent over and pressed his hand firmly over the small hole in his skin.

"No it's not. Come on, I'm getting you to the hospital wing as quickly as possible."

John agreed to his simple yet brilliant idea, and the taller boy helped his suffering buddy rise to a standing position. Sherlock tightened his blue scarf to its appropriate place, and John stayed close behind him as the detective knew where to take off towards.

"What'd you do with my wand?" He suddenly flung around to almost demand the question, but tuned his tone down in his next fact. "I dropped it back when I...passed out."

"You didn't pass out," John tried to convince him, and he could tell Holmes wasn't thrilled about discussing the occasion. "And it's in your pocket by the way. I managed to find it, and nearly stepped on it in the process." He grinned foolishly, and Sherlock patted the front of his clothes to find a great lump sprouting from his chest. Sure enough, when he tucked his hand into the soft silk, he extracted his trusty wand from behind the Ravenclaw patch sewn to the front of his uniform.

Holmes exposed his thanks by giving the lion a wink, and John returned the gesture by letting the tugging smile at his lips show. All the way back to the castle, John remained close in the shadow of Sherlock's tall body, sometimes looking up at the gaps in the treetops to catch a glimpse of space above.

"You want help?" the eagle questioned, seeing his friend struggle while walking a few paces behind. John didn't say a word but Holmes went to give him support anyways. He linked his arm around Watson's collar, helping him to keep his spine straight and limp in order to not increase any damage to his cut.

They walked a little ways hooked together, but John began to let out large exhales and was running out of breath. He looked like he might fall over any second, as if his skeleton would break under his weight. He shook off Sherlock and started to drag behind, clutching his side and fighting to have the stamina to remain awake.

"Come on, John," Sherlock encouraged, seeing as the blond had stopped to regain air. With the addition of a long walk with his pale color, John was having a terrible time trying to follow the brunette from his stumbling steps. "We're almost there."

"Just...just go," the lion suddenly let out.

"What?"

"Go without me. I'm too much of a burden. I'll just slow you down even more."

"No!" The idea was absolutely not an option. "Can't you hear yourself? I'm not leaving you here to suffer. There's no way I'd ever do that."

"Fine. Let's just make it back to Hogwarts soon."

"Alright. Stay close to me."

But they didn't get all the way back to the school. Sherlock shuffled his feet like a little kid across the dirt in consideration, finding the right words to piece together to tell John. Stumped, he settled for a flexible conversation which was an easier topic to talk freely over. He stepped into a clearing of trees now where a large area had been removed of oaks and pines to leave an open patch. A pointless rock was dumped into the middle of the exposed earth, but the trees bordering the stopping point seemed to be more gloomy and somber than all the others in the forest had.

"You know, your Patronus has gotten incredible, John," he grinned, back still in the view of his follower. Holmes found it odd when the lion didn't respond, so he decided to try again, thinking the shorter boy might be daydreaming or lost for words over a moronic idea.

"I mean, you can conjure it like it's nothing. I never thought someone, even as brave and loyal as you would be able to master such a difficult charm."

For the second time, there was silence over his back, and Sherlock stopped in his tracks. There wasn't the thumping sound of double sets of footprints rebounding off the forest floor, and that's when the Ravenclaw realized something was terribly wrong. Spinning around in shock, Sherlock turned to find that indeed no one was following his footsteps. John had slipped out of sight about a seventh of a mile back judging by Holmes's important deductions, but not on his own. No, John wouldn't just run off without letting the eagle know first.

John had gotten his wish. Not exactly in the way he'd planned for it to, but nevertheless he was the one faced with the times of danger this round. For written on the trees behind the brunette's back, clearly meant for him to read, Sherlock Holmes spoke the message out to himself in the early hours of the composing night. And what was worse, it was written on the tree trunks in an alarming spray paint color of Michigan yellow.

"U...R...Oh god, no!" He couldn't help but let his bottom lip tremble as he didn't read the warning fully. There was no need for explaining; it was crystal clear who was behind this madness. The only thing the brunette wanted right now was to have his little lion back by his side, protected within reaching distance.

But John was now far from safe. With each tick and tock the clock let off, the tension between the enemies grew stronger, and the risk of John being tortured or worse killed increased rapidly. In fact, there was a great chance that the Gryffindor, John Watson, his only friend, had already been murdered.

_U...R...Next..._

"JOHN!"


	22. Poisonous Confessions

** Chapter Twenty‒Two **

Poisonous Confessions

* * *

His scream rebounded and rang out into the night, echoing and bouncing off the trees right back at him. The lack of a friend there was too much to bear, as John evidently followed Sherlock in his footsteps wherever he went without taking much notice. There was something there, staring him in the face about the younger boy that blew his mind, yet that something hadn't been discovered yet; that something made Holmes have hope in the most strenuous cases, but now it had been swept from him in disturbance as the scarcity of his less than five foot tall friend had been kidnapped.

Three words. One message. Two of those clumps condensed into just one letter apiece, exposing a warning far worse than the one he'd received at the beginning of the school year. The detective hadn't even given much thought to the matter as the apple grew in age and sprouted mold among the slimy, yellow interior and around the circumference of the broken stem. He'd disposed of the fruit days later, only to find the smell foul as it reeked in the Ravenclaw first year boy's dormitory.

However, he'd written those three vowels on a spare sheet of parchment and shoved it in the bottom of his clothes drawer, debating now and then what their nameless theme might mean. And what the brunette didn't understand was why,  _why_  he never had the heart to tell the curious blond. To be honest, John hadn't even brought it up on the train after he'd nearly broken out in a fight with the future Slytherin.

That was the first time John stuck his neck up and fought to defend his friends.

 _I.O.U._ That was then. This was now. Dependent on the future. Three yellow words. A total of six different letters of the alphabet. A new message, just teasing the detective that Watson was gone and the only way he'd be saved was if the brunette came to rescue him himself.  _U…R…Next…_

"JOHN!" Sherlock's second attempt to scream out the boy's name was more expedient and fearful than his first tryout, and the compact space the trees caused made warm air compress and pressurize his body entirely. Again, nothing responded to his cry as his own voice was cut off in the thickening atmosphere. The moon was just barely able to peek over the treetops, casting its shadow along the bumpy ground and providing the panicking student with a bonus supply of light.

The air smelt horrifically and overpoweringly of spray paint and the chemicals filled Sherlock's nostrils as he advanced on the trees. The Michigan yellow words popped out against the trunks like the sun compared to a dark alley, and there were traces of the liquid writing dripping down the cracks and lumps in the bark.

His long, skeletal fingers ran over the bottom arch of the 'U', and the wet substance bled through, leaving his fingerprint lines visible on the padded skin reflected and opposite from where his nails were.  _Still fresh,_  he noted, doing his best to wipe off the soggy paint on a faded, red symmetrical leaf not too far away.

He braced himself against a wide oak tree, which branched over his head like an umbrella of twigs and needles to block out the night sky above. Tiny twinkles from the balls of gas high up would break through the opening in the towering plants, and the Ravenclaw would occasionally catch a glimpse of the stars trying to lead him to his destination. He let his spine bend with the shape of the tree trunk, just relaxing yet tensing with every breath when he thought about John.

* * *

The smaller boy was struggling with a person who was much stronger than himself, but each time he squirmed the grip would only get firmer and suffocate his chest. From what he felt with his touch, a left arm was partially around his neck, making it harder for him to inhale as the bone contracted on his throat.

Whoever it was that was dragging him along was not able to physically lift him off from the ground, and alas John's snug feet in his sneakers brushed over dead leaves and bulky tree roots as he tried to kick off the dirt underneath his legs. He tried anything to get some loose contact from the stranger, but his height and weight didn't serve as helpful factors.

"Let go of me!" John yelled, miraculously finding a method to step on the person's toe. The result was Watson being hoisted up to a more comfortable position for the kidnapper, and John found the other criminal's hand enclosing around his open mouth.

"Sherlock!" He tried to cry for help behind muscular fingers, but his voice was muffled from the palm barricading the sound. John chomped down on his teeth a few times, hoping to bite the kidnapper's finger and manage to escape, but they were too far from his lips to have harm done to them.

He tried to lick the stranger's hand, knowing it was disgusting and wrong on many levels, but nevertheless attempted anything he could to break free from the stiffening grasp. He could feel the oozing blood running down his open hip, sinking into the fabric of his upper pants and staining his Gryffindor uniform. He no longer paid any attention to the pain with every step the villain took, as he was too focused on staying alive to care less.

John could feel his right shoe starting to slip off the sole of his foot, but there was no way he could adjust the laces as it would do him no good in his developing plan. It was barely able to stay wrapped around his heel, so his best option was to press his slipping shoe onto his secure one and let both his legs scrape over the grass, dragging the stranger down.

He didn't have to be lured too far with glued legs as a clearing suddenly appeared in the distance, splitting the trees away from the edge of the forest. The criminal seemed anxious to reach his goal, as he sped up to continue with his mastermind plan. Beyond the forest's boundary, a field of similar colored rocks were scattered over the ground, and the reflected surface not far away was in fact the waves of the Black Lake.

The person who was carrying him led the lion over to the water's edge, and from there threw John onto the ground with a tremendous effort. The blond braced his hands on the unstable earth, not allowing his skull to smash into the jagged stones, wet or dry that surrounded the puddle of water. The rim of his robes' sleeve dipped into the waves on the shoreline, farthest from the castle built off on top of a sloping terrain. Three‒quarters of the lake's surrounding view was forest ground while a narrow field of vision was reserved to see a perfect view of Hogwarts, the moon just over the tallest tower.

John spit into the fresh water, gagging in desperation to gain air flowing back to his lungs. Huffing, he flipped over on his backside to face the unknown person who'd kidnapped him right out of Sherlock's watch, and his blue eyes flashed with hatred towards his enemy.

"You!" he spat, staring up into the smirking boy's face and pointing a finger directly towards his nose. He was able to speak no longer as the Quidditch player's eyes went wide in alarm the split second before the criminal's hand connected with his face. The blow to his cheek sent John crumbling to the ground, scrunching up his face as it stung from the skin on skin contact. Knuckles collided with flesh, and the finger bones missed Watson's eyeball by a few centimeters.

And as the criminal smacked his schoolmate of the opposite house, John got the strong scent of unforgettable Jasmine flowers shampoo the Pureblood always washed his hair with.

* * *

Perspiration was beginning to form on the pale face of Sherlock Holmes, and his Sycamore wand tended to slip from beneath his trembling fingers as he paced through the forest's rows of trees. He held the ignited stick aloft before his neck, hoping to spot some sort of clue that would lead him to discovering John's he was dead or alive, Sherlock had a gut feeling that he was going to find his only friend. His companion.

Ever since the dementors had fled previously, there was no sign of them returning to finish off their killing session. Sherlock hadn't encountered one in at least ten minutes, and the hound seemed to have fled for good, perhaps traveling off far enough to settle in a different town.

Time was being spent preciously but carelessly as well. For Sherlock spent every millisecond searching for the Gryffindor, but John still had an open wound that needed tending to and he would start to lose consciousness soon.

His feet stopped for a rest near a particularly skinny collection of shorter shrubberies, and he watched a spider gingerly weave a silvery web around the weak twigs to provide its family with food, if it had one for that matter. He crawled a few paces backwards, tracing his feet over the ground to avoid tripping over another root and smacking his head for another time that night.

And then, Sherlock did the one thing that he thought would calm him down always did it with his skull up in his dormitory, however freakish that may seem, always did it with Mycroft when in times of trouble, and always did it with John whenever he requested for someone to be there with him, to tell the lion anything he needed to. He spoke. There was no one there to share the conversation with him, so he spoke to himself, expressing his thoughts and feelings by letting them pour from his mouth.

"I'm…afraid…" He couldn't believe the words that were spilling from his own lips, yet they came in stutters as opposed to confident words. The forest around enwrapping him in a blanket sent spooky noises shooting through the muffled air. The dozens of possibly mysterious and dangerous creatures lurking in the Forbidden Forest, Sherlock didn't want to know.

"I really am…" He paused for a moment, studying his hand, which shook uncontrollably before his own eyes, knuckles banging together.  _My body's betraying me._

He decided to flee from the vacant space, taking short, shuffled steps and once in a while checking over his shoulder for anything untrustworthy. If a dementor found him now, there would be no way he could possibly produce a Patronus. John was the only thing in the entire universe that gave him faith, being the happiest memory stuffed in Sherlock's cramped brain. But now he was gone, taken from him, and if the dementors came back to haunt the Ravenclaw, Sherlock knew he would surely fail and be exposed to the dreaded Dementor's Kiss.

Holmes quickened his pace, taking larger and longer strides, which slowly broke into a speed walk. He stopped after about five minutes, resting his back against the nearest tree to regain his breath. He felt something dangling loosely around his neck and readjusted his blue and bronze tie so it was draped evenly across his shoulders before continuing on his way.

 _I don't know where I am…_  Sherlock was beginning to lose courage. No wonder he wasn't sorted into Gryffindor. Like…John.  _I could be venturing deeper into the forest for all I know. I'll be lucky if I come to the edge and find an exit. Don't be stupid, you're not going to find an exit,_ he argued with himself, making two sides to the situation in his fragile mind.

"Ouch!" He felt a cracking pain in his left big toe and retraced the steps of his path before concluding that he'd stubbed part of his foot on a rock sticking out of the dirt. He cursed again, bending over and massaging his foot through the thick material of his shoes.  _I hate nature…_ He grumbled, pressing harder into the shoe.  _Why…_

Flinching from a new, blaring sound, Sherlock covered his ears as a shriek rang out in the air, ringing off about a third of a mile away slightly to his right. His mouth flew open and his hands lowered back down to his sides as he reconsidered where the sound had come from, or more for that matter, from whom. The cry was not from any animal, nor any creature that could be roaming the woods.  _A hint of terror, lungs involved to project the sound, help screaming from the throat of a young boy…_

"John!" Sherlock sprang to his feet, snatching up his wand. Without delay, he bolted off into the darkness, the faint light of his wand flickering in and out of the corner of his eye as it swung beside his leg. He dodged the trunks of blurred trees, leaves on their branches brushing against the curls in his hair. Twice he nearly tripped over boulders again, but his legs powered through and he ran on, sprinting to pick up speed. He ran northwest, his mind knowing John was somewhere off in the distance, trouble arising.

This game was going too far.  _No one is going to die. John will be okay…_ The Ravenclaw urged words of comfort to rack his brain and he slowed to a halt once more to gasp massively. He clutched at a cramp under his heart but flatly forced himself to run again. Holmes gritted his teeth in pain and scrunched up his nose as a sharp thorn bush dug into his cheek. He didn't stop to care to it or cease the bleeding. He could feel the hot liquid sliding down his thin face, making red tracks over those knife‒like cheekbones of his.

Another piercing screech rang out through the trees, this time much closer and sharper to make out. Sherlock blurted out his best friend's name faster than the scream ended, and all too soon a passage out of the trees molded into view as the detective pulsed onwards. To his right the edge of the forest ran with him, and his stopping place was the farthest point on the intended line bordering the Black Lake. After what felt like hours, he met up with the last row of trees lining the outlet of the Forbidden Forest but halted to scan the surrounding area before proceeding on his path.

Movement was seen in Sherlock's peripheral vision, and his eyes darted to a figure hunched over, inches from the lake's closest waves.

"John!" Relief and dread filled his veins as he rushed over to join his buddy, who sat motionless on top of the crumbling rocks the eagle darted over. There was no response from the smaller boy at the mention of his name except for a deep moan that came from his mouth. John was on his knees, sitting back on his heels, one shoe slipping off his foot with his head bent over from view. As the brunette knelt next to the blond, he noticed the athlete covering his face with his hands, not in the least bit wanting to expose his beat forehead and chin. The eagle tried to pry them away from the Gryffindor's cheeks, but they were like magnets permanently attached to his pale skin.

"John! John, it's okay, I'm here!" But Watson made no movement. He didn't show the slightest stir when his name was said in his ear repeatedly but continued to hide his head from Sherlock. The lion was trembling from head to toe, the front of his robes unhooked and hanging lazily down on either side of his ribs, exposing the scarlet patch on his clothes where his wound had bled.

Sherlock just sat there, horrified, staring at his friend. Finally John moved, shaking his head back and forth slowly with a great effort to power over the limpness that was dominating his muscles. A little gasp of air came from behind his hands, muffled, but Sherlock could nonetheless still hear it.

And then, John spoke. Not to anyone in particular, but he whimpered and pleaded out loud, startling Sherlock and making him shuffle back a few meters on his backside. His voice shook and cracked as the words prayed between his teeth, and the consulting detective understood and imagined Watson had vanished from reality and was exposed to a world where tortured cries rang in his ears.

_Which could only mean one thing..._

"No…Please…Not him…NO!" His last cry came as a shriek, and Holmes stood up accordingly, holding out his wand and preparing himself to protect John.

At that instant, a shuttering cold swept over the two first years. It made the hairs on the back of Sherlock's neck stand up, and all the happiness in his body was suddenly drained from him. He scanned the entire boundary of the forest, waiting for the soul‒ sucking hooded figures to show themselves.

John yelled again, and Sherlock grimaced at the noises coming unplanned from his lips. " _NO!_  Stop it!" His red All Stars dug deeper into the rocks and his head sank lower as he keeled over. Sherlock wheeled around pronto, and there they were.

There must have been at least fifty, slowly gliding to where he stood, and the Ravenclaw threw himself between the monsters and his best friend. They were surrounded. The dementors had encircled around them, creating a non‒crossable bubble. There was something strange going on though…

 _They're not attacking me,_ Sherlock thought, mildly confused. They towered over his tiny body, sending shivers down his spine but stopped advancing and instead made him feel uncomfortable. From beyond the cloaked monsters, the eagle could make out another figure making its way to where he stood. It wasn't another animal, or creature for that matter. It was…

"Well," came the drawling censure, teasing with his control of power, "here we are at last, Sherlock. You and me, and our problem." The navy blue suit was ironed and spotless as usual, and Jim Moriarty's slick hair shined with a white glow from the reflection of the moon breaking through the grey clouds. The consulting criminal looked much neater than Sherlock did; spotless versus bruised and bloody.

Sherlock adjusted his wand arm, aiming directly at Jim's heart. Moriarty made no comment on the fact that a stick was being pointed sternly at him but walked casually in the direction where John was curled in a heap on the rocks instead. Sherlock's eyes went wide in frustration and fear.  _Don't you lay a finger on him,_ he growled in his brain.  _Don't touch him._

"Of course, this isn't the final problem. No no no," Jim teased, hands in his pockets as the spoiled look crossed his face, "I'm saving that for something special. No need to rush."

"Bit risky wasn't it?" Sherlock began to show off his rebuttal skills. "Bringing an oversized dog onto the ground of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry right under the nose of headmaster Albus Dumbledore."

Jim ignored the statement like an underdog ignores their opponent when in a face‒off. "This is just a glimpse, a tiny fraction of what I can accomplish in the wizarding world, Sherlock." He stopped strolling not three feet from John, hands in his dress pants' pockets. "I'm a specialist. I can do so much more…" He gave his enemy a wicked grin.

"So, this is how it is, is it?" Holmes tried to distract him from John. "Dear Jim…please will you team up with the school's dementors? Just to take over the world and create a diversion." He sped up abruptly. "Dear Jim, please will you lead us into a war?" Sherlock was taunting his foe now, revealing his plan right in front of him just in a different way, putting emphasis on the battle word to prove that he'd solved Moriarty's scheme.

"Oh, you're clever. Working it out so easily. Just so." He bounced twice on his feet and indicated the brunette was on the right track.  _I don't know how that's possible…_ Sherlock admitted in his mind, _an_ _eleven_ _‒_ _year_ _‒_ _old_ _boy, finding powers strong enough to control dementors?_ "No one ever gets to me." Jim's last syllable was elongated. "And no one ever will," he finished.

"I did," Sherlock pointed out, shifting his stance so both hands held his wand now.

"But," Moriarty stopped Sherlock in his fight, "now you're in my way."

"Thank you," Sherlock replied dryly.

"Didn't mean it as a compliment," the Slytherin sneered, as if an insult was directed at him.

"Yes you did," Sherlock grinned in a matter‒of‒fact way.

"Yeah, okay I did." Jim's gaze flickered and switched to John, and he looked at the fearful first year with pitiful eyes. "Oh, such a sweet thing, young friendships." He made a rude gesture to add to his disgusted sound, and Moriarty slid his foot teasingly over the ground to stop a few inches from John's elbow.

"Don't touch him!" Sherlock blurted, coming closer with his wand as a hazard. Jim gave him a look like he was pathetic, and his hand wove around to pull his own Yew wand from his blazer pocket, holding it like a baton with his precise grip.

"Tut tut," he roused, drawing patterns in the air with the bright tip of his stick. The wand shot off green sparks as a warning, and Sherlock remained with a firm stance where he stood. "People do get so sentimental about their pets." At the indication to the oldest wizard's friend, Moriarty bent down and hauled John to a standing position, making him shake and find it torment to stand on his wobbly knees. Jim's left hand, his dominant one, snaked around John's neck, holding him in a firm lock and pushing his chin up to the sky.

John was having difficulty breathing. Whenever he inhaled, he had to cough gently in order to gain some oxygen. He tried to buildup strength so he could fight Jim, but the bitter cold the dementors were giving off took it all from him. The best he could do was use both his hands to pinch Moriarty's combative arm. Jim's wrist bone stuck out extensively, and it sank deeper into Watson's collar bone. A purple bruise was under his left eye, along with a small cut to add to the damage. It was as if someone had pulled a plug and his power source was cut off. The only way he could move was if Jim directed him around like a ragdoll. John's limbs were so flimsy he didn't even feel like himself.

"Put him down," Sherlock snarled. Jim just smiled while grimacing.

"Sherlock," John managed to rasp, "run!" But Sherlock didn't retreat. He kept his feet planted in the ground, debating what the best way was to point his wand at Moriarty without the risk of hitting the lion. Jim was reaching into the inside of his suit, exchanging his wand out for an object Sherlock couldn't get a clear view of.

"You can torture me, you can do whatever you want to me," Moriarty continued, "but nothing is going to prevent them from killing you tonight." His head indicated towards the hooded monsters. John squirmed again, but Moriarty's grip was tightening around his neck. As the pressure built up, John let out a pathetic squeak from his mouth. The tips of his shoes barely touched the ground and his feet wiggled inside his red sneakers. Finally, the one shoe dangling off his sock‒covered toes fell and bounced away, landing on its logo side.

"It's either you, or your little pal here." Sherlock concluded from Moriarty's cleverly spoken words that he'd planned for one, if not one then both of the boys to die that night.

"Fine. Kill me," Sherlock said, and John almost let tears stream down his face.  _What is he saying? Sherlock, don't give yourself in. I need you…_

"Oh, I don't think I want to do that," Jim hinted, lugging John up so he stood better on his feet. Holmes narrowed one eye thinking he could get away with it, but it was just enough for Jim to notice his confusion. "I think we'll play this game a little longer, shall we?" Sherlock showed his response with an indication of his head, shaking it back and forth in intimidation.

"Sorry Sherlock," Jim teased, lengthening John's spine forcefully. "I'm soooooooo changeable!" With that last torment, he extracted the unknown object from behind John's back and stabbed it into the shorter boy's neck and pressed the plunger on the tool.

Simultaneously, Sherlock and John both sent screams from their mouths. The needle being forced into John's collar was injecting some sort of fluid into him, and he yelled in agonizing pain as it spread through his blood. His body became weak, and his vision had blurred significantly, adding to the side effects his injuries had given him. Less than ten seconds later, the world around John went pitch‒black, and Sherlock saw his best friend collapse to the ground, the right side of his head splashing into the water of the lake, soaking his blond locks.

"NO!" Sherlock wanted to punch every inch of Moriarty he could reach, maybe pounce on him and break a dozen bones, but the shock that had hit him had prevented his body from launching himself at Jim. The well‒groomed boy had fled from the scene of the crime, leaving Holmes and Watson alone on the shore of the Black Lake.

At least a dozen of the dementors followed Moriarty back into the woods, but the rest were advancing on the two first years. Sherlock unfroze his feet from the spot where he stood and prepared himself to defend John and his own life. He focused his mind on John.  _Only John, nothing else._  The spell was said from his lips as he yelled it out across the lake. " _Expecto patronum!"_  Nothing happened. He concentrated harder. " _Expecto patronum!"_  A whisp of silver sparked from the end of his wand but vanished and died quickly. The dementors were closing in on them, and he was alone. Alone, and had to protect two lives.

 _John,_ Sherlock thought.  _John Watson. This is all just a dream and it's not happening. John's right next to me, and we're sitting outside under a tree after a Quidditch match…John…Come_ _on,_ _Sherlock!_ he urged himself.

He whipped around in fear, checking to make sure the dementors behind him hadn't snuck up on him. Sherlock almost ran into one as it protracted a scaly hand, the long, pointed finger nails inches from his neck and its tattered robes swaying in its shivering cold. He felt the bumpy claw enclose around his throat, and the eagle tried to unclamp the hand away from his contracting windpipe. The supply of air was shortening.  _I'm going to die,_  he thought.  _I'll suffocate._ His feet left the ground, and his face was coming closer and closer to a disturbing sight.

The dementor was beginning to lower its hood, and all Sherlock could see was a gaping hole in the deranged skin. There should have been two dents for eyes sockets, but altogether they didn't exist. No slits for nostrils were shaped in the center of the blank face, nor did a bridge of bone stick out as a nose. What resembled a mouth was an empty hole, sucking the life out of him and preparing to kill him.

Sherlock did the only thing that could've saved his life. Feet twitching, he reached out as far as he could and kicked the killing creature right under its waist, if it had one. His body fell onto the rough rocks, and he coughed to redeem his breath. He hacked several times, spitting up the gunk that had clogged up in his throat. His wand had flung out of his hand and was now some four meters away. Holmes launched his body to his weapon, snatching it back up safely in his grip. Seconds later, he was on his feet again, the dementors swooping in for their second attack.  _John…_

" _EXPECTOPATRONUM!"_  The spell started as a flimsy shield of silver, spinning its way through the air in front of him, but as the thought of John grew stronger in Sherlock's mind, so did his Patronus. The silver phoenix erupted from the tip of the wizard's wand, like all the other times he'd accomplished while practicing with his schoolmates; just like an hour ago, when he and John raced through the Forbidden Forest, the phoenix and wolf dancing between the trees as they sprinted along side by side.

The Patronus spread its great wings and sent off blazing blue sparks from the ends of its feathers, blinding the dementors and pushing them away. Sherlock grasped his wand tightly, directing the charm to finish off the creatures, to force them back into the shadows from whence they came. His fingers slipped on his wand wood, but he kept a firm grasp on the base, his knuckles turning white.

The dementors were turning their backs now, scabby green hands covering the opening in their hoods cowardly. Sherlock's legs were shaking violently, but he forced himself to stay on his feet until all of the dementors vanished from view. When the last of the creatures hid in the depths of the forest shadows, Sherlock's legs gave way and he sank freely to the ground, knees scraping over the jagged rocks. He let his knees buckle under the weight of his chest, gravity pushing him down to earth.

He used some of his remaining strength to lift his head, gazing at the beautiful phoenix flying through the air towards him. He was amazed at how it remained floating in the air, almost a solid form and impenetrable by light. It opened its sharp beak, and Sherlock extended his hand out to touch the mist for the first time. Before it came in contact with his fingers however, it faded in a mass of white and blue and the spell died.

"John!"

The only way Sherlock could make his body move was to crawl, his hands fighting to clasp rocks and wet sand for support. He shook all over, cold sweat dripping off his face, and he kept his eyes locked on his unconscious friend.

"John…" His voice was barely a whisper. He nudged his friend hopefully on the shoulder that faced the night sky, but he knew John wouldn't stir. Tears began to form in his glassy eyes, and he let his expressive feelings show as the droplets of water ran gradually down his long cheeks. A single tear peeled off the end of his nose, falling down to land on John's black robes. The mix of salty water and blood stung on his face, and when he rubbed the oozing liquid from his cheek his hand was covered in the scarlet fluid.

There was still coldness about in the air, but Sherlock could feel a warm feeling starting to spread through his arms, giving him back his strength. He rolled John over onto his back and pressed a hand to the boy's chest. It took a while, but eventually the slow and calm rising and falling of Watson's chest was felt under Sherlock's hand, and his heartbeat was one continuous drum beat.

Sherlock examined the spot where John had been wounded on his neck. A mixture of blood and some orange liquid was pouring sluggishly from the opening, and a large stain blotted the front of his Gryffindor sweater. His All Stars were splotched with water, as he was drenched from head to toe on one half of his body. Sherlock took a small sample of the liquid on the end of his pointer finger, bringing it up to his nose to smell the foul mix.

_Poison…_

Sherlock stared into John's adorable but sleeping face, wondering if he would ever wake. His sandy hair stuck out from his head and water droplets fell from the small strands on the edge of his hairline. Some of whatever was injected into John's veins was spreading like butter in the mucky water. The eagle applied pressure to the lion's cut, ignoring his own injury and debating to himself whether or not it would do any good to save his friend's life.

Sherlock's vision was beginning to fade. His brain was receiving waves of blurriness, and he could hear a faint beeping in his left ear. Moriarty was nowhere in sight, and neither were the dementors as Sherlock pulled John in closer to his body. His sight became a whirl of colors. The muscles in his arms and legs were weak, and all he tried to do was breath. Inhale and exhale. His final breath left his mouth in a pant, and his royal blue and bronze tie rolled off his shoulders completely as his body shifted positions, rolling over the uneven ground.

The heaviest part of his body went limp, and his head dug into the cold stones. His figure crumpled onto the bedrock beside his best friend as the haze of colors clouding his vision all faded to black. The hand that pushed against John's cold skin regressed to the bottom of his neck, no longer able to find the stamina.

His green eyes got one last glimpse of his best friend before closing because of the tiredness. Sherlock's free hand slid off John's rising chest, and he tugged at the fabric in one last attempt before he completely gave out. His damaged cheek burned when it slumped into the stones. All his muscles unfolded as the last of his strength left him, and Sherlock Holmes shriveled into the ground, defeated in a way, as he fainted.


	23. Levels

** Chapter Twenty-Three **

Levels

* * *

The brunette's rouse was like snapping awake in a free‒falling dream, only it was as if someone had pressed a rewind button and instead he was rising up to meet his end. Slowly he awoke, the blackness expanding out to swallow him like pavement rushing up to greet him, and the emptiness in his stomach bringing him up to unfold out of his lousy sleep.

If anyone was around, the Ravenclaw certainly didn't want attention deliberately placed to him at the first sign of movement. He used his dominant sense to touch his surrounding area, feeling soft, clean sheets wrapped around his body and a fluffy pillow beneath his skull. He exhaled delicately, shifting his head ever so slightly to the right while his bendable spine sunk into the bed's mattress. God, it would have been heaven if he could just lay there, letting his body radiate heat under the duvet and being undisturbed for the rest of his life. If only John was there to share it with him…

 _John._ The life‒saving Gryffindor must have close by, considering if Sherlock had been saved, undoubtedly the lion was too. Or maybe he was still locked in a fantasy and he in fact wasn't alive; even then, his friend would still follow him, even if it meant giving into the shadows of death for his own soul.

The eagle inhaled through his nose to continue with his deductions, eyes remaining shut due to the lousiness in his lids. He smelled some scent of glorious lilac in his nostrils, drifting to fill his breath from his right. He had no desire to find out what it was from, but just to remain where he was and pretend, or possibly know that no one cared about him. The only thing that argued with him was his brain, tricking his body into forcing him to distinguish whether or not John was safe from harm.

Slits cracked his vision, blending a modified view for him to discover where he was. It was no sweat to comprehend that he was lying in the hospital wing.  _Everything is so bloody…white,_ he growled, seeing the high‒arched ceiling far above his bed. From across the ward, stars glittered outside the window on the far wall, and the moon was just peering over the tops of the trees in the Forbidden Forest.

Even the opaque and dim light the kerosene lamps let off was too much for Sherlock's pupils to witness, so he blinked to turn his head to his right as he rolled over onto his side. His ribs crunched under the weight of his chest as he shifted, and his attention became more fixed as he spotted a figure sprawled motionless on the cot directly to his right. At first he mistook it for a dummy, but then he realized it was too detailed to be one. He cursed at himself for a punishment as he called his best friend a plastic statue.

John Watson was flat against his springy mattress, one arm resting on his evenly rising chest and the other tucked under the comforter covering the lower half of his body. His fresh pajama shirt was pulled up to his heart, revealing thick bandages loosely wrapped around his lower abdomen area. The weight of his head made his chin lean against his left shoulder bone, allowing a pristine view of John's facial injuries to Holmes. The cut just under the corner of his eye wasn't as swollen and the complete edge died down in the fierce color of pink it used to be. The punch Moriarty had given Watson had some impact, as his entire right cheek was bruised black, purple, and green. Many white gauze pads were secured to the bottom of his neck, blocking out any germs and dirt from entering his punctured wound.

The lilac blossoms smell grew stronger as Sherlock observed John's battered face, wondering why someone would be so cruel as to hurt a human being, the same species Moriarty was himself. Just staring at his injured face made the detective feel blank, like an important page was missing from the novel of his school life.

A small bowl sat on the bedside table and a fluffy white hand towel was draped over its curved side. A bottle of soap was pressed up against the shell of the basin while a glass vase of red roses blossomed to add decoration to the room's mood. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut as the scarlet color reminded him too much of the liquid leaking from John's hip freely, and instead his dazing gaze switched to a large chunk of chocolate sitting on the table, waiting for him to devour. Reaching up with a shaking hand, he broke a piece off the thick block and chewed thoroughly, licking the sweetness of the treat on his lumpy tongue.

Suddenly, a pair of voices echoed in the hallway outside the open doors of the hospital wing, and even though they were muffled Holmes couldn't help but eavesdrop in on their conversation. He remained lying with his back to the ward's entrance, quietly chewing on the last bit of his chocolaty goodness.

"Don't tell me now that you still want these terrible monsters to remain on the school grounds," came the first stern voice of a woman. It was obvious that the small huff at the end of her sentence identified that it was Professor McGonagall.

"Indeed not," said the male teacher of the opposing Hogwarts house. Professor Snape's lingering drawl sent shivers down Sherlock's back as he sounded remotely like a vampire agreeing with her, or maybe it was because the thought of dementors was still on the first year's mind. As the adults' conversation went on, Sherlock distinctly made out that the discussion was turning out to be about him and John's encounter with the guards of Azkaban. It was no surprise that the news had spread so rapidly. The younger Holmes brother wouldn't be shocked if the story became a headline in the next copy of  _The Daily Prophet_ on the front page.

"It seems reasonable that the dementors should be escorted from the school immediately." A newer, crisp voice entered the discussion, belonging to the little dumpy witch Professor Sprout, who taught Herbology. Sherlock lifted his head a little in curiosity.

The next sentence was more peppy and spit‒spottier than it was supposed to be, coming from the squeaky voice of the midget head of Ravenclaw, Professor Flitwick. "After all, what happened the previous night has been rumored through the school, and no doubt Mr. Holmes and Watson could've easily been killed. This would have been a deep shame, as both of them are exception and bright wizards."

There was no way Holmes could not smirk. Snape responded with an almost direct insult to the boys. "Yes, but you need to consider that both Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson were out of bed after hours and went on school grounds that are off limit. Consequences need to be put into consideration."

"That git…" Sherlock muttered under his breath, chomping on his chocolate in frustration and accidentally biting the inside of his cheek.

"Why Severus, I think we should be more concerned about their health than the violation of school rules." The head of Hufflepuff house was trying to defend the students, as she deeply cared that the kids remained safe.

The deputy headmistress of Hogwarts stepped in to defend Pomona Sprout. "The state of Mr. Watson when he was taken into the hospital wing last night was frightful. If the skills of Madam Pomfrey weren't so professional, that poor boy would have died at such a young age from the poison injected into him!" Her temper was lifting yet a sort of shaking tone flickered between her words.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.  _He would have died if the poison wasn't taken out of him. If._ He had to check and make sure he was right before coming to any conclusions. Sure enough, when the eagle propped himself up onto his elbow, Sherlock spotted a glass cylinder full of the moss green liquid Jim had sent flowing through John's veins, securely taped so no one happened to swallow the contents or spill them and expose toxins into the air. Some stupid people would have the brains to do such a thing at a younger age.  _Immature and sophomoric idiots._

"No doubt Mr. Holmes's ability to conjure a Patronus at his developing age served as a role in saving the two… _friend's_ lives." Snape put emphasis on the strong word, but Sherlock was more bewildered at the fact that Severus was actually sticking up for him. He was secretly complimenting him. He sounded impressed that such magic was conjured from a skinny Ravenclaw brunette of twelve years old.

"No question about it. Still Severus," the Gryffindor leader argued, pausing for a nice effect, "these creatures cannot stay at Hogwarts any longer. Surely the headmaster will not allow it, taking into consideration the harm they still could do to the rest of the students. Someone is controlling them, meaning they will only increase the risk of our school's safety declining."

Snape let out a sigh of annoyance. "Fine. I agree to some extent that the dementors of Azkaban should return to the prison, but you know the boys need to be punished, Minerva. Mr. Watson undividedly had a twig stuffed in his pocket no doubt used for protection, and Mr. Holmes had tiny bits of leaves crusted into his hair. The evidence clearly shows that they were running through the Forbidden Forest without permission after hours." Sherlock couldn't believe the words the teacher was bolstering, and his face molded into an angered sneer, worse than the serpent head of Slytherin house. He stuffed his fist into his mouth to prevent the outbreak of a rude comment to escape from his lips, knowing house points would be deducted from him if he insulted a teacher.

Professor McGonagall stomped around a few times, and Holmes could just hear the hem of her cloak swishing over the stone floor. "This is preposterous," she whispered with enmity. "I shall not deal with the boys' actions at the moment. I'll take this into Professor Dumbledore's hands. The headmaster will know what's best. I'm sure he'd like to have a word with the young first years as well."

Sherlock gulped, lying with his back to the hospital wing door and pausing his chewing. His eyes traveled from the floor up to John, wishing his friend could've heard the conversation that was lengthening in the hallway. There was some scuttling about from Madam Pomfrey's office and the door was open a crack so she could hear her patients and let a golden light dump into the infirmary.

All the heads of Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin house began to walk back to the lower levels of the castle together, but the Transfiguration teacher stopped to show support for her students. "However," she considered, and her voice was steady as she'd stopped pacing, "both Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson showed great bravery last night."

_Last night? How did I not catch that before? I've been out for 24+ hours…_

But Professor Flitwick wasn't finished with their powerful argument and stepped in to set Snape in an outnumbered position. "For a first year student to produce a full‒body Patronus is beyond advanced magic." He sounded so proud because he taught the subject of Charms as a living for his job. "I say both Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson deserve house points for their heroic actions."

Snape had been silenced by the other teachers, but by a woman and the most experienced and supreme deputy headmistress in Hogwarts. Minerva McGonagall must have given him her dangerous eyebrow, because Severus stumbled to find opposing words. "I‒I believe you have a point, Filius. And you as well Pomona and Minerva." The head of Slytherin house did his best to deny siding with the ladies, but the head of Gryffindor had brought up an important point and lured him to her side with valor.

"So there you go," Professor McGonagall said, satisfied and accomplished that she'd won the debate. "That's fifty points for both Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson."

 _Serves him right,_ Sherlock snickered, stuffing his white sheets into his mouth so he didn't disturb the rest of the room. The Transfiguration, Herbology, and Charms teachers left the Potions master alone outside the ward, and he mumbled a few words of disgrace before following them down to the lower floors.

The brunette felt it was safe for him to move without anyone noticing, so slowly and protectively he pushed his body into a sitting position. His spine arched and pained from being straight for too long, and he felt light‒headed as he gripped onto the bedside table for support. The dizziness faded quickly and he was able to bring the hospital wing into focus, shaking his head back and forth to double check his stability. His hand wasn't steady and nearly failed to support his weight, fighting to clasp onto the rim of the table. His upper arm strength helped as a factor and prevented him from falling over.

 _But why did we get the same amount of house points?_ Sherlock turned to face the lion, who slept with a bandaged torso and lower neck with a frown on his chubby face.  _He deserves more points than I do. He almost died saving my life._

Sherlock sluggishly rose from the bed, inhaling and getting a fresh scent of the scarlet roses. Taking baby steps, he made his way over to the blond Gryffindor, cringing at a searing pain shooting through his left cheekbone. He lifted his hand roughly to connect with his face, feeling a small lump just under his eyeball. The stone floor was freezing under his feet and he wished he had a pair of socks for warmth.

To his luck, a hand mirror was sitting on the dresser, and he picked it up to stare at his reflection. The skin on his face was so tight it made him almost resemble a skeleton, and under his eyes was sunken, purple bruise had forming around the cut under his left green iris. When he tried to pry his eyelid completely open, the entire sphere stung and it made a tear spring in his vision. His best shot was to keep it partially closed, like victims that get beat up on television shows. He couldn't believe what he looked like, almost a zombie who had been scarred for life after a battle.

He set the mirror down with a sigh, standing with glued eyes for a few long moments. When he re opened them his gaze had magically and unintentionally landed on John. With a shaking hand, Sherlock reached out to just touch his friend's forehead, just to feel his lion's warm blood pumping through his body.

His palm pressed to his upper skull and Holmes felt a hot temperature to Watson's skin, almost boiling. Droplets of sweat dotted the edge of the blond's hairline, so Sherlock quickly gathered up the towel folded in the bowl to pat his friend's face. He sat on the edge of the mattress, making sure he didn't fortuitously put pressure on Watson's wounds. Even if John was the one who was normally mastered in healing, it was Sherlock's turn to protect his buddy's health.

There was a chair next to the eagle's bed rail so he brought it up as closely to John's mattress as it would allow him to. He sat bent over, feeling around under the lion's covers to find the blond's tiny hand. When it was in his care, he pulled it out to rest on top of the duvet, making new wrinkles in the fabric as the wrist sank like lead.

John's skin was as smooth as a baby while the brunette softly brushed his fingers over the twists and curves, waiting for a sign from the younger boy that he was awake. But none came. Sherlock stroked the top of John's hand, taking in the touch and feeling of loneliness. Holmes closed his eyes tightly again and squeezed his forehead inward to prevent the headache from becoming fiercer. He supposed it could have been a migraine, but the intensity just wasn't the same. When the Ravenclaw was stable again and the succinct wave of heat passed on, he sat up and released the maintaining harsh grip from poor John's loose hand.

He now took both of his hands and pressed John's in between them like a sandwich, trying to generate enough heat to keep the blond toasty. Even when he was sweating up top, his fingers were freezing and looked like they might crack and fall off at any given moment. Holmes blinked, watching their hands interact with each other as he exhaled soothingly.

"John?" he asked, voice like a terrified bunny while he spoke tenderly. It almost seemed like he was putting on a play, and John was being a really good actor when it came to playing unconscious. Watson continued to breathe nimbly, eyes not flickering nor ears listening as he was off in a different world.

"John..." He tried again, but the Gryffindor still didn't move. Sherlock now felt the bumped surface of the smaller boy's nails, noting that there were white streaks in their composition when they were exposed to light to mix with the strands of gold in his hair. "John, just so I know you're here, can you squeeze my hand? I‒I want that feeling I always get when you do that. You know, that gut instinct that I have the enterprise to do anything in the universe. All I need is a squeeze."

He knew he wasn't going to get one, but he kept pleading anyway. "Come on, John."

Silence.

The brunette removed one of his hands from the pile and moved it over to Watson's face, pressing his palm to the boy's uninjured cheek. "John..." If someone could've taken a picture of Holmes sitting there alone, he looked like he could have been cropped into another photo of him petting a cat, minus the heartbroken frown on his face. Yes, he knew it was awkward stroking his friend to wake him up, but he wanted to do anything to have him for snugness once again.

"John, don't leave me." He might have shouted out at that moment, but no one came running for help so it didn't matter. He couldn't help it anymore. The aggravating terror was flooding over his body and partnering with his defects, and thus tears began to swell in his eyes. He'd never grown so attached to a boy of his age, so curious to learn the hundreds of facts there still was to know about John H. Watson. And he knew what the 'H' stood for now.

Hamish.

" _You never told me your name. I suppose it's something boring and common_ ," Sherlock had commented, but that was back at home, referring to the blond's first name. His middle name definitely wasn't used often. It was unusual and original.

It was different.

A young teenage patient was propped up in a bed in the far corner, watching the Ravenclaw from behind her pulled up knees. Her long, black hair was tied in loose ponytails as she rocked back and forth on her backside, Hufflepuff robes draped over the foot of her bed.

And then something mysterious yet trustful happened. The girl's hand lifted to wave at him, and Sherlock tilted his head in wonder. He had no idea who she was or what she was attempting to do, but he had to show a small smile to return the gesture back to her. After receiving his response, the third year pointed to John lying unconscious in his bed, seeing the younger Holmes brother's hurt for his friend and shiny tears on his cheekbones.

Strange, even though Sherlock knew where the hand motion originated, his fellow patient pressed her three middle fingers together while the others curled in front of her palm. Her arm outstretched till her elbow locked, and Sherlock knew she was honoring John by recalling one of his favorite Muggle books,  _The Hunger Games._

He wasn't the only one who was praying for the lion to return.

Because the raised hand was a sign of hope.

Sleep came to tease Sherlock at around four in the morning, and he gladly accepted the thought of sinking back into the white sheets of his patient mattress. John had not moved or even stirred while Sherlock finished his towel dabbing, and the Hufflepuff third year in the far corner had drifted off to rest a few hours previously. Seeming to have had all the tears flow from his eyes in the world, Holmes felt like he would be able to bawl again unless some circumstance presented was serious.

* * *

The sun was shining on the floor next to his bed when he woke up the following morning, but that didn't catch his attention at his first breath of life back into existence. Someone was stroking the right side of his face, delicately running familiar fingers over his skin cells. It wasn't John; he would have known better. The touch of the Gryffindor was so well‒known he could probably recite a long essay with adjectives about the sensation that took over his veins. He squeezed his eyes shut and slowly rolled his head over to his visitor, suddenly feeling the unknown hand brushing the curls off his head.

At first he thought it was Greg Lestrade, considering the hand was buff and very strong, but the knuckles weren't thick enough for that to be the case. This time they were peculiarly bony. Sherlock took his time to open his glassy green spheres, making sure his vision adjusted and didn't damage his eyesight from the blinding May sunshine. The rays came in through the tiled windows to land in splotches on the white floor, brightening the hospital wing without any extra lamps needed.

When Sherlock finally got the strength and nerve to open his eyes, he reconsidered his injuries and made sure to only fully unseal one eyelid. He was startled to see the least expected person sitting in a chair with his Slytherin Head Boy badge pinned to the front of his robes.

Mycroft.

"My?" Sherlock asked in a frenzied tone, using his brother's nickname for no apparent reason.

"Yes. It's me, Sherlock."  _God, he sounds_ _so calm. Mycroft's never calm._ The older Holmes brother continued to stroke the Ravenclaw's face. Sherlock certainly thought the sixteen‒year‒old was going to chew him out, but it was the exact opposite. He was taking the role of a father instead.

"W‒What happened?" He wasn't exactly sure why he asked the question. He knew perfectly well what his condition was.

"Shh…" The Slytherin did his best to sooth the curly‒haired brunette. "It's okay. Everything will be fine."

"John…?" the Ravenclaw wondered, acting as if his brain was making him speak frantically on purpose.

"He's right here," Mycroft whispered, as if he would damage his brother's hearing if he talked any louder. "He's behind me."

"I want to see him…" Sherlock's words blended into a slur while he tried to sit up. He felt groggier now than he had the night before. A hand automatically pushed him back down, forcing his chest and head back down on his pillow. He had circles under his eyes from staying up late the night before and caring to John.

"He's fine, Sherlock. There's nothing you can do." Sherlock thought shockingly that the blond had passed away at an early hour of the morning without any news carried onto him, but his brother hadn't finished his sentence and the younger kid was thankful yet, because his deeply upset idea was untrue. "He has to recover on his own." The twelve‒year‒old Ravenclaw was able to peer around the corner of the nightstand, spotting John's lower stomach and legs lying on the bed next to his. They were in the exact same position as he'd left them, motionless and lifeless. He wanted to push up onto his hand, not his elbow. He wanted to be able to look at his friend's face and take in all the unique features that made John who he was.

"But…I want to help him, My. I have to. I _need_ him." The overpowering essential had been out for over a day now, and the Ravenclaw unfortunately kept blaming himself for the damage done to his lion. The misery was too much and Sherlock let stinging tears run down his bruised skin.

Mycroft bent his head down, rubbing his brother's upper back knots as he had buried his face in the cushions. How Mycroft, the sixteen‒year‒old Slytherin snotty sibling was able to comfort him, Sherlock didn't know. For once, he was glad his relative was hanging out by his side supporting him.

"Let me ask you something, Sherlock." Mycroft patted his sibling's shoulder to make him look into his cloudy eyes. Sherlock looked up, swollen eyes turning vibrant around his green irises. Mycroft paused before digging for the answer he wanted. His question unfolded as more of a true fact than a sentence requiring an answer. "You…you love him don't you…"

Sherlock was stumped and halted in his tracks.  _Love him? How so?_ He didn't think for more than ten seconds before sniffing. "Of course I do," he squeaked, and he gave a little hiccup as he finished.

"Then why don't you tell him?" Mycroft's stare remained unmoved, and the two brothers locked attention to each other for a long while.

Regardless of his choking voice, Sherlock was able to let out the exact answer he always would reply, no matter who he was talking to. All he had to do was shake his head for proof. "I‒I can't. I don't have to."

"But  _why?_ "  _Such a strong question, yet only one word._  Sherlock handled the situation with ease, watching John's weightless chest rising and falling smoothly under his duvet. Dreamy and straightforward was his reply.

"Because I already did."

* * *

Three days after Sherlock had been delivered to the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey gave him permission walk around the room a bit, and before long he'd regained his full stamina. John remained frozen, like a mummy wrapped in his large bandages all over. Once Sherlock thought he saw his friend move his right hand that rested on his heart, but it turned out just to be an illusion fooling him. Twice he was caught almost leaving the ward's borders, but there was a bonus to staying in the hospital as he especially loved the chocolate he was given every night before he went off to sleep.

Mycroft's conversation had put some deep thought to Sherlock's scientific mind, fishing with his feelings to discover how he really felt for John. His brother had returned a few days later just to check on him after breakfast, and he even brought a few pieces of Sherlock's favorite bacon and biscuits for him.

Surprisingly, Molly Hooper also came to say hello to him. She brought him a get well card and a box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans which Sherlock munched on while they had a leisurely chat. She told him Lestrade would've joined in on the visit, but he was too stressed about final exams and hurriedly planned to study. She passed on the other Gryffindor's message that they were both morons for randomly running out into the Forbidden Forest in the middle of the night, and Sherlock couldn't help but snort in agreement.

Before leaving Sherlock to study for her Astronomy final about a week away, Molly took Sherlock's hand and held it tight, giving him a small sense of hope for the blond just beyond the opposite side of his bed.

* * *

The idea that he was going to get John to wake kept bothering him, and the day before he was allowed to leave the ward he tried to receive that tug again. He sat by John's side, dressed in freshly laundered robes while he held the lion's paw once more. Whereas he had his grip on the Gryffindor's muscular fingers, the shorter boy wasn't yanking back. The larger boy's hand was on top of the blond's, lying paralyzed with no capability to shift whatsoever.

"John, it's been a few days now. Surely you—" He stopped himself, gulping so he didn't gag and cry again. "Surely you want to come back to me."

Sniffles were the sound that came out of his nose, and he wiped it on a tissue to get rid of the gross boogies. "Please. John, I need you. Just one more miracle. I know you can come back. Just for me. Come back!"

His head sank and dove to collide with the edge of the bed, providing a puffy surface for his skull when it crashed. His Ravenclaw tie slipped and fell off his collar, falling abandoned to the floor. Once it hit the stone, the fabric contracted and folded into a ball, the thicker end landing on top of the thinner one.

His right arm was now cradled in his lap, dangling down without energy as his left fought to get a curl from John's fingers. His head was looking down, facing the floor and out of the lion's view with his eyes shut.

At first it was a little flinch and Sherlock thought it was a mistake, but when John's fingers had the agility to weave in between his own he knew better. There was a weak tickle just below his nails as the blond's thumb brushed the brunette's skin, and then his pointer finger managed to slip through the gap under one of the taller boy's knuckles. Slowly Watson's hand bent to find Holmes's palm, and he reached for the eagle's arm like he needed it in order to live. Sherlock maneuvered his own palm so John could take all the commands, slipping his own hand under the patient's so the lion could find and hold it tightly. The Gryffindor's hand groped to hold the eagle's, fingers entwining so they were gripped together in the end.

"John!" Sherlock was so startled yet thrilled he jump up with tears of joy in his irises. He stood next to the mattress, John's latched hand glued to his as he looked down on the blond in euphoria. "Madam Pomfrey!" He shouted for the school's nurse to come see the evidence that the boy was rousing, still holding his hand in delight as his voice cracked from the original sadness that was building up inside him. John looked like a patient that was clinging onto being alive, slowing coming out of a coma and awakening in a way as to attract needed attention.

"John! I'm right here! I'm not going anywhere!" The shorter boy's face still hadn't moved one inch, only his wrist. It was like he was run by a remote control and that was the only part of his body that was switched on.

There was the shuffling of feet as Poppy Pomfrey came to see what the commotion was. She never reached the bed until the Ravenclaw was done with his little speech of glorification. Sherlock's other hand was now on John's left shoulder, his chest curved over to get a good look at his sleeping face. He smiled with hope.

"John, I'm here." The blond was suddenly able to turn his head, slowly like his neck might snap if he jerked it too quickly. His skull fell over and pressed up against the side of his pillow, mushing his cheek in so it looked puffier than it already was. Behind his closed ocean eyes, Holmes knew that Watson was inevitably watching him and staring into his long face. He was in the early stage of waking and not quite ready yet to open them up.

But that was okay. It didn't matter if they were open or not. What mattered was that was he was alive; he'd survived and Sherlock was able to have his best friend by his side just like old times. He wasn't going to drift away and leave his family behind in sorrow, and he wasn't going to be cut off from living a limited amount of years in the real world. What was more and best, he wasn't going to leave Sherlock Holmes alone.

A single tear fell from the taller student's right eye. He smiled and sniffed, bringing John's hanging‒on hand to connect with his lips. He muttered a few thank you notes, kissing the Gryffindor's skin because he was so uplifted by his arrival back into existence. The eleven‒year‒old's fingers wove around to tug on the sleeve of the Ravenclaw's shirt, moving around as if to remember what it was like to perform such an action.

"I just knew," Holmes said honestly, and John gave off a small groan at the sound of the brunette's voice, a groping reaction to hearing it all the time. "I just knew you'd fight through it. You remarkable boy..."

* * *

Sherlock was free from the hospital wing the following day with a little bit of convincing for Madam Pomfrey, and he was allowed to spend time with his few friends at lunch that Thursday. His condition remained mild and he still couldn't fully expose his left eye, so he was forced to walk around with it squinted all the time. He left with a long gaze at the blond lying under the covers, sadly dipping his head as he headed downstairs to the Great Hall. Just the little tug at his sleeve was enough to make his heart fill with happiness. The sight of the Gryffindor still lying on the bed was bleak though, as Sherlock had hoped he would fully wake before he was allowed to leave the ward.

He was nearly knocked over and burdened with a concussion as Lestrade threw himself onto the Ravenclaw, squishing him in a bear‒resembling hug. "Sherlock! Thank god you're alive."

"Of course I'm alive you lunatic," Holmes remarked, holding his lower arms out to the side of Greg's stomach.

"Jesus," the Gryffindor commented, scanning him up and down twice, "you've lost weight."

"Wait till you see John," Sherlock replied, sulking a little from the depressing thought of his friend. "He's so pale and thin. He hasn't woken once since we've been transferred to the hospital wing. It's been…four days now, I think," he considered, counting it out inside his mind instead of openly on his fingers. "The only thing I've managed to get out of him is a squeeze on my wrist."

"Don't worry, Sherlock," the black‒haired boy comforted him, slinging an arm over his shoulders. "He'll recover. John always comes back to us."

* * *

Even though he'd been through turmoil and had been distressed for almost a week, Sherlock was thrown into studying for finals just like any other his mind took in information quicker than anyone he knew, he didn't have to study for as long. Nevertheless, he spent hours poring over books in the library and old notes he'd stuffed in his trunk from the beginning of the school year. Professor Snape glared at him from behind his desk during Potions lessons, but Sherlock showed no sign of how he knew about their dementor discussion.

To pass the time, Sherlock also went to pay a visit to see Hagrid. He was greeted with a large mug of tea and a few stale cookies for a snack, and the half‒giant did his best to stay off the subject of John as the Ravenclaw was disordered over it. Fang kept him company as he sat in the bulky armchair, dripping slobber onto his lap and staining his uniform pants.

After sipping down his drink, the brunette made his way back up to the school alone, watching the far side of the Black Lake as he passed over the lawn. He saw the rocks on the far side of the shore where he'd fought off dozens of dementors that which none of the creatures remained on the Hogwarts grounds anymore. Albus Dumbledore had dismissed them after the tragic incident, even if Death Eaters were still roaming the country in hiding in a well‒planned manner.

Striding down a hallway on the fifth floor he almost bumped into Lestrade, who for some reason had a smirk on his face. He was no doubt trying to hide it from the taller boy, but he failed epically.

"Hey," Sherlock heaved, letting his shoulders sag.

"Why so glum?"

"Why do you think?"

Greg bit his lower lip and stared at Sherlock's shoelaces. The Ravenclaw had grown taller since the Easter holidays, because the rim of his robes was a few inches above his ankles. Holmes however did not care in the slightest. He'd just have to wait till next year to get a longer pair, or as he classified a new set. Besides, the Holmes family members were known to grow like weeds.

"Well, if it's any interest to your liking, someone wants to see you." Sherlock didn't ask with any words and couldn't possibly deduce who would want to see him.  _Could be the headmaster,_  he thought, but changed his mind when Professor McGonagall said Dumbledore would want to see both of them at once.

"But —" There was an urgent need for some explaining; Sherlock Holmes was lost in his fuzzy brain.

Lestrade's mouth opened a few centimeters, and he licked his lips with his tongue to wet them. The smile was coming into place before he could speak. "Why don't you take a trip downstairs…"

His thought process didn't take longer than fifteen seconds. It was undeniable who Lestrade was telling him to go see, and both boys smiled with teeth showing at the exact same moment. Greg wasn't surprised when Sherlock bolted off in the direction of the moving staircases, his robes flowing behind him as he ran.

He skipped two steps at a time as he sprinted down several flights of stairs, occasionally fixing his blue and bronze tie so it didn't fly off his body. With every lunge he was closer to his destination, to having the last piece of his puzzle fit in to complete the boiling sensation in his chest. He knew he shouldn't have been running this early from being released from treating to his injuries, but he powered on and continued to aim for his desire.

He reached his intended floor, glided past the marble staircase, and ran down a few corridors while the bewitched paintings on the walls followed him with their eyes as he zoomed by. He turned the last corner he needed to before approaching the large doors with bolts lining the outer edge. Pushing them open simultaneously, Sherlock Holmes halted in the doorway of the healing ward.

There in the right row of the beds, sitting up on his own, was John. His legs were outstretched in front of him under the covers, and his blue and white striped pajama shirt was fully covering his stomach. Fresh, white gauze pads were patched over the wound in his neck, and he looked as cheerful as ever.

"John!" The older boy took no time delaying his arrival at his friend's side, and John's smile widened at the excitement on Sherlock's face. His long legs carried him over to Watson's bed swiftly and his feet scuffed over the floor as he prepared to spring on the lion. His dress shoes pushed off the ground, and John found himself buried under Sherlock's body weight.

"John…" he repeated, acting like the Gryffindor hadn't heard him before. The shorter boy had to lift his chin almost to the ceiling in order to push it past Holmes's shoulder bone, but he gladly accepted the hug from the Ravenclaw. Sherlock was running his hand through his blond locks, and Watson missed the feeling of having someone watching over him while he was awake. Now, he was able to take in that wonderful feeling once more.

Sherlock shifted his weight back onto his heels, leaving his palms pressed onto the younger wizard's collar. "How are you feeling?" he asked, staring into the blond's serene pupils.

"Famished," John told him, rubbing his growling belly.

Sherlock was a little worried and nodded his head. "I can imagine why." An idea struck him and he leaned over to the bedside table. "Here," he said, snapping off a piece of chocolate and offering it to his friend by sliding it into his open hand.

"Thanks," John said, smiling. He gulped down the treat like a greedy kid on Halloween, starving as he hadn't eaten in several days. He continued to chew and unexpectedly found Sherlock's graceful hand rubbing over the side of his head. He paused, watching his friend with wide eyes and mouth agape.

"Sherlock?" he whispered when the brunette didn't respond.

"I promised, and I accomplished my job. Sort of…" John got the clue.

"I know," he accepted. "Lestrade says you've been late in the evenings keeping a close watch on me since you woke up."

"It's true. So…" Sherlock coughed, changing the subject quickly, "Iheard that you were injected with poison."

"No you didn't."

"What did you say?" Holmes asked, flabbergasted that he was put down by a flat remark.

"You weren't told. You knew." John had proved Sherlock wrong right before him, and the older boy cocked his head to stare both blankly and shocked at the patient. John smirked, acting all smart aleck. Both boys began to giggle and stare down in embarrassment, trying to decide who was best to speak and go on with the conversation.

"But yes, you're correct," John stated, lifting his head back up. "What poison it was, I don't remember. Madam Pomfrey told me, but it had some bizarre name." Again, the first years blurted out into a fit of laughs. When their noise died down, John's uplifted facial expression switched to concern.

"Madam Pomfrey says a bit of the fluid is still in me." Sherlock's heart sank a little in his chest. "She couldn't remove it all. Fortunately, it's not enough to cause any damage. According to her top notch skills I'll be fine." The sigh came out as soon as the good news was announced.

"And thank god too," Sherlock huffed, relieved as he pulled John into another squeeze. "I'm not kidding," Holmes croaked from behind his neck, "I thought I lost you that night."

"Nonsense." The friends broke apart and Sherlock looked down on his companion, bewildered. "How could I leave you?" Watson exposed the fact, shrugging his shoulders casually. There was a long silence between them as they just sat observing one another. "I can't," John finished.

"I know."

John rested his hands in between his sprawled legs, glancing down at the foot of his bed as he played with his feet. He suddenly shuttered and curled into a frightened ball, and Sherlock contracted his eyebrows at John's violent movement.

"Spider," was the mumbled response Holmes got. Sherlock exhaled and asked where it was, and John nervously pointed to the squeaky‒clean floor as if the creature would attack him if he moved a muscle. Sherlock removed himself from the comfy bed and found the tiny black bug crawling on the ground. With ease, he used the sole of his shoe to squish the creature to its death.

"You're fine now," Sherlock chuckled, finding John's fear of spiders mildly cute. "When did you first develop your phobia?"

"I was three," John ejected, double checking to see that the creature was indeed gone. "A really big one crawled over my bed covers as I was about to go to sleep, and I screamed so loud I woke up Harriet in the room next door." Sherlock felt sorry for his buddy.  _It's never a pleasant thing to experience such a thing at a young age._

"Never gotten over it since," John admitted, flattening the ruffles in his pajama shirt.

"Anything else you care to share with me?" Sherlock asked, curious at what John's past was like.

"Uh…I learned how to play the clarinet when I was seven?" He answered the rhetorical question, thinking the lifetime event wasn't so significant after he cared to share it. John also couldn't help but blush a deep shade of red. Holmes raised his eyebrows in amusement, never thinking the lion would've learned to play an instrument before.

"So, anything been going on with you?" the blond asked.

"Nope. I've been so lonely without you. Then again, Madam Pomfrey refused to let me leave until only a couple days ago. She's so stubborn."

"Shh!" John almost yelled. "You don't want her to hear you!"

"Do I look like I care?" John giggled again, covering his lips with his right hand. Both of them were quiet for a few minutes before Sherlock spoke again.

"We've got finals coming up soon."He reminded the younger kid of the end of year exams, tracing circles into the bed sheets.

"Oh crap, I forgot about those…"

"It's okay," Sherlock assured him. "We still have a little less than a week to prepare."

"I bet I'll beat you in grades," John teased, punching the eagle on the upper arm.

"Ha," the smaller Holmes brother mused, giving his friend a look. "I highly doubt it. I'll blow all of you out of the water."

"Try me."

"Alright then. Challenge accepted."

Yep, Mycroft was right. There was something about John that created an exception to Sherlock.  _Of course I love him, just in a different way._ It absolutely wasn't a boyfriend type of relationship, no…

It was a brotherhood.


	24. Actions

** Chapter Twenty‒Four **

Actions

* * *

"Hang on; can we go over that last bit again?"

It had been six days since John had first woken from his unconscious state, and he now sat up in his bed in the hospital wing while Sherlock went over History of Magic notes with him. Finals were less than a week away and the two best friends concentrated on studying the subject John struggled most with. Ever since he'd roused, Watson had refused to talk about his injury on the night of the dementor attack to anyone but the Ravenclaw, so whenever someone mentioned it he simply remained silent.

"What don't you understand?" Sherlock sighed, and John could tell he was beginning to get frustrated inside.

"It's just...the part when he discovered the tomb, I don't get it. It seems like it's irrelevant."

"Yes, it is irrelevant, but it's important." Holmes, being a master in all school subjects, had improved on his teaching skills, especially when it came to explaining theories.

"How is it important? If it doesn't have anything to do with the history of magic, then why do we have to study it? Irrelevant statements should not be bothered to be memorized."

"John, you know Professor Binns. He teaches the most boring subject on the face of this earth. The way he teaches it is...horrendous."

"Sherlock!"

"What? I'm sure most people in this school, dumb or smart —" John gave him a warning look before he concluded his sentence, "would agree with me."

"I mean, yeah he's probably the worst teacher we have, but who knows? There could be more professors in our futures that are just as bad."

They were disturbed from their studying when Mary Morstan tiptoed into the ward, looking like she might faint if she broke the two kids apart in their conversation. John saw her first and tapped Sherlock on the shoulder, nodding his head in her direction. "Hey," she squeaked, nervously crushing on John and drawing attention to it. "Um, just so you know, when —" she swallowed after her first fluid line of speech, "when John is recovered enough to leave the hospital wing, Professor Dumbledore would like to see you both in his office." John gulped as he had not been told the news. He assumed by her shaking tone that he and Sherlock were in a serious predicament.

Mary shuffled her feet along the floor as she fumbled with her hands. She was bashful and avoided eye contact with both the Ravenclaw and her fellow housemate and briefly glanced up before scooting backwards to leave. "Oh," she paused, turning back to them as they began to study once more. Sherlock had to hold in a snort as she almost ran into the wall, clearly so embarrassed in the presence of the injured blond sitting up in the bed. "The headmaster would preferably like to see you today." And without another tremble to spare, she slipped around the edge of the doorway as close to the hinges as she could, flattening her short hair and criticizing herself as she vanished.

Sherlock swerved around on the mattress, fixing his attention on his Gryffindor. "Well? What do you say? Think you can head up to Dumbledore's office?"

"I‒I thought we were studying..." The lion looked hurt and placed his textbook on the bedside table, swapping it out for the mirror so he could stare at his reflection. "I look rotten and bashed up," he insulted himself.

"No you don't!" Holmes found the blond's lack of interest to be disturbing. "Besides," he carried on, "we can put it off for a bit, don't you think?" he asked, patting the younger kid on his head full of fluffy locks and staring at his purple bruise below his eye. "We still have a week anyway. If we just work on each subject a little bit a day, you'll be fine. Don't work yourself up over something so simple."

"Simple?" John disagreed, cocking his eyebrow at Holmes.

"Yeah. Believe me, Mycroft let it slip that finals are really easy. You're smart anyway. You'll ace them with ease." John's cheeks felt hot. "It's only when you're fifteen that you have to worry about big exams that count and depend on your future, such as O.W.L.s, and then N.E.W.T.s the next year. Mycroft has to take those next year. Such a perfect son trying to get a highly appreciated job at the Ministry of Magic," he mocked.

John laughed as he took a bite of chocolate and felt discharged. "I can't see why he'd want to work there," he offered his opinion.

"It's rubbish if you ask me," Holmes scorned.

John sighed as he reached over to put the mirror back down, cringing a little at the cramp forming around his wounded side. "Alright," he managed, after the pain had subsided, "help me get up will you?"

"Anything for you little buddy." Sherlock beamed, jumping up enthusiastically from the bed like flailing kernels in a popcorn machine. His arm extended almost exactly as it had during the night of the winter dance, and John used the platform to push off into a standing position. "You doing okay?" Sherlock wondered, placing his free hand on John's collar to stabilize his friend.

"Yep," he determined, not feeling dizzy or receiving a pain in the process of bouncing on the pads of his feet. "You might have to persuade Madam Pomfrey though to let me leave..."

Sherlock gave his only friend a smirk, and Watson knew what his cleverness was up to. "You can count me in," he cheekily responded, all the while his grin elongating.

* * *

As long as Sherlock remained by John's side at all times for their 'personal matters' as the Ravenclaw had put it, he was allowed to walk up to Professor Dumbledore's office. They took things as slowly as they needed and stopped whenever the Gryffindor's side cramped up again. All the way up to the headmaster's office they only had to pause twice, and John did remarkably well on his own. He was able to trudge up and down staircases without the aid of Sherlock, and you couldn't even tell that he'd received quite a shock less than a week ago. The only bandages visible were the ones curled around his neck, and ever since he'd woke up John showed no sign of his neck hurting him at all.

Professor Dumbledore's office was located at the end of Gargoyle Corridor up in the Headmaster's Tower, and a great statue of a bronze phoenix stood with its wings spread out wide. The closer the boys got to the entrance, the more details they could spot around the bird's wings. Its beak was positioned so it looked ready to attack any intruder, and John stared into the hard eyes that gave him the death glare.

"Oh, shoot. What's the password?"

"What do you mean 'what's the password'?" John asked, hunching over in his black robes.

"Well you can't just expect to be able to walk on into the headmaster's office without permission, do you?"

"Well, we're screwed then, right? I mean, we're not going to enter if we don't say the right words."

"Hang on," Sherlock halted him, holding a finger up so he could concentrate. He paced back and forth in the corridor a few times, mumbling to himself with his hands pressed to his lips. John heard him say something along the lines of 'candy' and 'wizard shops' and some random place called Hogsmede, but nothing came to his own mind.

"Ha!" Sherlock shouted, making John jump at his sudden outburst. He rotated to face the towering statue and held his hands out in front of him, like he was going to hypnotize someone. "Drooble's Best Blowing Gum!" he spoke in a confident tone, and John waited for something to happen.

Possessed by magic, the bronze animal cracked on its pinpoint and shifted in place a couple times before rotating on an invisible axis. Originating out of the floor, a grand staircase twisted around the center of the phoenix's tail, and Watson watched as it twirled up to the top of a hidden hallway from his viewpoint.

The statue came to a rickety and rusty stop, and the Gryffindor turned slowly in amazement at the brunette. All he got in return was a smirk. "After you," the Ravenclaw responded, flattening his arms to let his friend pass.

John went first up the stone steps, bracing one hand against the wall for support. Halfway up he could see a new door that was the entrance to the office, and the soft thumping sound of Sherlock's footsteps rebounded around in the cylinder space around him in his ears.

When the black door was a few yards from his grasp, John pressed himself against the wall to let Holmes join him in the tiny area. He gave a little nervous shrug of his shoulders, which indicated for the older boy to knock three times lightly on the door. The brunette was sure not to knock four times, for various reasons.

From behind the barrier there came a soft voice, allowing the two first years to enter the headmaster's office. "Come in," was all the professor said. Sherlock, finding it most logical, clicked the doorknob and swung the wall open, stepping back to let John into the large room.

It was remarkable to see such a sight even though he'd only just then got to step foot into Dumbledore's study. John could've easily visited the headmaster earlier in their opening year at Hogwarts, such as when Sherlock had his problem with shouting at people, but he hadn't taken things that far. Being in the hospital wing for nearly a week made John bored of the same sights and sounds every day, and now coming into this room was like being greeted to a marvelous wedding banquet.

Maybe a few hundred bewitched portraits covered the stone walls, all moving and carrying a previous headmaster of Hogwarts. Some were much older than others, but they varied in all shapes and sizes. Some of the moving pictures snored loudly in their chairs, and others passed to fellow frames to whisper to one another about the newcomers. A cabinet was closed to their right, and a bowl of wizard sweets sat on a table for guests. The place looked like a dream library just fancier, columns lining the staircase the led to a high platform and Dumbledore's desk.

"Ah. Sherlock. John. I do believe you got my message from Mary. Please, come take a seat."

Professor Dumbledore's voice was so soothing and relaxing that no one would've ever known if they were in trouble, unless the headmaster was to his boiling point with anger. One could definitely mistake his voice for a wise adult though, not an old man. John turned to see the elder sitting in a golden throne, perched on the stage slightly higher than the bottom floor they were standing on, and a balcony to an upper level with two curved staircases on both sides was just above his head. A long table for work and books was in front of him, and he motioned with a swift hand for them to take a seat in two chairs before him.

John went up the steps to come within ten feet of one of the greatest wizards of all time, holding a hand firmly against one of the polls so he could ascend the stairs. Dumbledore watched him to get a sense of his injury, and Sherlock tapped the Gryffindor on the back before they took a seat to have a chat.

"Now, I suppose both of you are wondering why I brought you here," Albus spoke, watching them both with piercing blue eyes behind his half‒moon spectacles. John slouched so his neck almost dug into the upper part of the chair's back, and Sherlock glanced at him out of his peripheral vision.

It was the eagle who responded before the lion could. "I may already have a suspicion as to why we're here, sir." He told the truth, unfolding his hands in his lap. John was mildly shocked.  _He almost croaked there,_ he observed, staring down at his thighs.

"Then I presume you're correct, Mr. Holmes," the headmaster stated, but the smart Ravenclaw didn't comprehend.

"I'm sorry, Professor...?" He asked just to check and make sure he was right, to clarify the weird condition.

"Your friend Molly Hooper has told me a lot about you. She's a bright young witch for her age."  _Since when has Molly visited Dumbledore? And frequently too by the sound of it?_

"Oh —" Sherlock paused to readjust his fix on the old man. "Well, I wouldn't really consider her my friend, yet. I‒I've only got one of those."

Sherlock swore he could've seen John tilt his head to the side to almost stare at him, knowing perfectly well where his comment was heading. The Gryffindor scanned the room from the limited vision he could see from his seat, and from up on one of the bookshelves he spotted the school's ancient Sorting Hat. Its rim was closed and it was moving, patches bold and peeling from the sewn thread that held them together.

"Do you boys recall what happened on the night that the dementors of Azkaban advanced on you both in the Forbidden Forest?" Professor Dumbledore liked to announce as much detail as he could in one sentence so he didn't have to repeat himself later.  _Oh joy, he knows what we were up to,_  Sherlock found out.

"Um...yes sir. I remember it as if it were yesterday. How could I not?" Sherlock was undoubtedly trying to do his best to be polite to the leader of the school.

"Indeed. And what about you, Mr. Watson?"

John did not move. He knew it was rude to reject the headmaster, but he didn't want to talk about it. His eyes flickered a few times to and from the edge of Dumbledore's desk, just above his stomach area, but no words escaped his lips. Sherlock gave a frightened and disappointed look at his friend, considering he was being a bit disrespectful to the professor. But he knew about John's pain and answered for the lion.

"Sorry Professor, but he doesn't really want to talk about it."

"I suspect why," Albus nodded, resting his elbows on the arms of his high‒backed seat. "I have been informed that Mr. Watson had quite a scare a week ago as Professor McGonagall so kindly informed me." The old man turned back to the blond, who remained staring at the floor, lips almost glued together permanently. "Have you fully recovered from your injury, John?"

The use if his first name made the youngest wizard unable to stay quiet for any longer, so he slowly raised his head to look into matching blue eyes like his own.  
"No sir," he let out, barely in a hearable voice. Sherlock was watching him with determination now, never removing his vision from the blond's irises.

"I see," Dumbledore said, lengthening his back out a little longer. "I apologize if this conversation makes you feel uncomfortable —"

"No. It's fine," John lied, blinking and stretching the frown on his face. Sherlock could see his hesitation in his complexion easily, but he said nothing to the headmaster.

"So, are you both aware that your actions a week ago violated about a dozen school rules?"

"Yes sir," they both muttered, ashamed while Sherlock turned his head back to face the oldest person in the room.

"May I be so polite to ask what possessed you two to enter the Forbidden Forest after hours?" Sherlock heard John gulp and knew he'd have to be the one to reveal most of the tale, up until the part where he'd passed out.

But the brunette couldn't get the story started before John butted into the discussion. "It was curiosity, sir," he told the man with the white beard.

"Curiosity?" the headmaster wondered, leaning in closer to John's hunched body. "About what?"

John twisted his head to ask Sherlock for help without words, and the Ravenclaw nodded his head up and down. "You have to tell him, John. Don't be afraid to spit out the truth."

And so Watson proceeded with telling the whole event out to the headmaster, adding more details in for Dumbledore to get the feeling of how both boys had felt that night. He switched the story over to Sherlock after he'd explained being kidnapped, and Dumbledore remained silent for the entire time. He didn't ask questions till both boys were finished with telling their parts of the story. The only time the headmaster spoke was to be informed of who'd lured them both to the lake's shore.

"It was Jim Moriarty, sir," Sherlock explained, eyes flashing with disgust when his mind flickered to focus on the serpent. "You know, the Slytherin who is also in our year..." He wasn't entirely sure why he addressed the manner in such a way, since without a doubt Dumbledore knew all the students in the castle.

"I see. And you're sure that's who took you away from your friend, John?" The blond shivered a little bit while he tilted his head to stare at the man, taking in the various features on his face, such as his crooked nose which had clearly been broken before.

"Yes," he said in a shaky response, feeling the bruise on his face throb a bit from the flashback to the violence he was exposed to.

"And you said Mr. Moriarty hurt you in a physical way?"  _I think it's pretty obvious,_ John said in his mind.

"Professor, I think he did more than just beat John up," Sherlock inquired, raising his tone and fighting for his point. "The state of John when I found him made me shake, and even though he was stabbed in the stomach by a twig earlier, I still believe he would've died if I hadn't been there to save him."

The Gryffindor shifted his gaze to stare at Sherlock, a destroyed look on his face while his arms rested on the supports of his chair. His cheeks burned a little and he could tell they were becoming white in color, but he dared not move his skull or act as if he didn't care what the brunette was saying.

"So —"

"It's true, sir," John cut into the conversation, and Dumbledore pressed a free hand against his cheekbone. "Moriarty smacked me several times, abused me even, and I tried to fight back, even though it was wrong," he quickly added, making sure he didn't upset the headmaster, "and I don't know how he was stronger than me. But the devilish cold the dementors gave off prevented me from protecting myself."

"Well thank you John for sharing this news with me. I'm proud of you for being able to get it out of your system after such a short time of recovery." Sherlock pushed his wand deeper into the pocket of his pants, even though he knew he wouldn't be needing it much longer in their first year at Hogwarts. "Mr. Holmes, would you mind continuing with your part of the tale?" Sherlock nodded, taking in a large breath before concluding his speech.

Sherlock finished when he had described his experience of fainting for the first time, which he truly didn't want to talk about, and a strong silence followed before anyone said a word. The twelve‒year‒old was shocked when a question wasn't directly fired back at him when he'd stopped speaking. In fact, Professor Dumbledore turned to the other boy instead.

"John," the man whispered, indicating for the boy to listen closely to his question, "would you mind telling me what it felt like when you were on the rocks when Sherlock came to kneel by your side?"

John's mouth opened and closed a few times without sound escaping, and he struggled to recall how Moriarty had tortured him so much. After a long while, he let some random words spill from his lips. "I‒I dunno. All I remember is that it was horrible. The screaming got so intense in my ears I thought I was going to go mad pretty soon. I couldn't hear anything else and I thought my head had split open for a moment before I was able to come back to real life."

"That's when he shouted out and, to be honest…it scared me. And I  _never_ get scared, unless the situation is serious," Holmes added, seeing John shift backwards as he moved in his throwback of the lake event.

"God," John mumbled, picking at his fingernails and easing one hand up to clasp his forehead, "I don't even remember shouting out."

"Hmm..." Dumbledore hummed, hands pressed together in front of his neckline.

The smallest kid took another large gulp in his throat. "What did I yell?" he asked in a regretting way.

"It was just, 'no' and 'please' a bunch of times." John sniffed in his nose and wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his robes, making sure he didn't suddenly burst out crying.

"Well, despite your rule‒breaking actions, you both no doubt showed signs of great courage and persistence that night. For showing bravery, and talent, I am rewarding you both with twenty house points apiece."

Both first years seemed to perk up a bit at the mention of a heroic stunt they did for their houses, but their moods sank back down as the headmaster pushed them to their limits and begged for them to finish the story. Dumbledore didn't even start back up on a happy note after giving out house points, and John had to dig in his mind for depressing thoughts for an answer to the headmaster's next wonder.

"Do you remember what the shouts in your head said, Mr. Watson?" Again, the calm voice filled his ears.

"A little. Not entirely though...I seem to think that I heard Sherlock calling for me. Almost the same as it had been all those other times before, only worse. I‒I heard slashing noises and only could imagine what those were, because next second his cry rang in my hearing and I just wanted to help him but I couldn't..." The blond ducked his head down to pull his face into a saddened expression, hiding it from the other two people sitting around him.

"Shh..." It was a big surprise to Watson as he felt Sherlock's arm wrap around his shoulders, and the Ravenclaw had reached in to calm his shaking thoughts. "It's fine, John. Nothing happened to me, and nothing ever will. I'm right here by your side and I'm not going anywhere. I assure you that I'll never be tortured any time soon. Even better, I'll never be pained like that in all my lifetime."

Professor Dumbledore smiled as he watched the two boys' friendship develop right before him, and the brunette looked back at the headmaster to show he would sacrifice his soul for the blond.

"Mr. Holmes, would you mind leaving John and I alone for a few minutes? It won't take very long."

Sherlock obeyed the request and left his best friend sitting in the squishy chair, brushing the surface of his robes as he exited from the study. There was a click as the door closed behind the twelve‒year‒old, and Dumbledore came around the side of the desk to stand by the side of John, who was curled in a heap.

A wrinkly hand was placed on his shoulder, and John looked up as the headmaster suggested that he stand up. The lion did so, lifting his head up so he could look into the old man's pupils. "John," Albus whispered calmly, rubbing his upper back, "you know what you did that night was wrong, but also right. If you hadn't performed half your actions, Sherlock no doubt wouldn't be alive."

"Neither would I"" Watson said shakily. "He saved my life too though," he squeaked, telling him the statement and putting himself down. "He had no right to go through such torment that night. He shouldn't have been exposed to the danger we put ourselves in."

"Of course. Both of you should never have had to experience what you did last week."

"He still saved my life..."

"Then you two are even, are you not?"

The idea silenced John as he rolled the comment over in his brain multiple times. Dumbledore saw the frown that remained on the boy's face, and he pressed John's chin up to the ceiling so he could look at his student properly. The headmaster was reminded of a younger version of himself. After all, he had been sorted into Gryffindor in his days, and the boy that stood before him had so much more talent than he had at that age. But now, he was one of the most powerful wizards in the entire world.  _This boy can go a long way,_ he knew.

The headmaster's tone was so soft, like he was indicating a newborn infant. "What you did didn't come from your brain," he said, and John was even more mixed up. He paused to let the moment sink in. "It came from here."

And the hand that rested on his shoulder slid down the front of his black robes to stop in a convenient place. Directly over John's loving, selfless heart. Watson was forced him to take in the information, and it took him a while before the answer clicked in.

And now he knew. After all the times he'd said it to Sherlock back in the Room of Requirement, he never fully comprehended the statement himself. He even spoke the words to the Ravenclaw, but even the older boy didn't get it with his complex brain.

One strong memory which will serve as a shield against human or monster harm.  _Expecto patronum. I await my guardian._

 _After all this time..._ John just noticed, asking the headmaster with his wide eyes and open mouth, and Dumbledore recognized his student had solved the puzzle. He'd tried to convince Holmes to let out what the eagle's Patronus was, but it just unfolded in a jumbled way he never expected. And it came out better and more wrapped in their school year plans than John had anticipated for it to.

 _It was me._ It might have been selfish at the time, but now that it came back to taunt him, the young Gryffindor understood.

_"_ _Fear can only be defeated by strength. And strength doesn't come from your brain, Sherlock. I'll give you a hint. You're looking right at a person who has one…"_

The strength of a guardian. Of a boy with a big heart.

* * *

Since he'd already left the hospital wing anyway, John was released from the abandoned infirmary and joined Lestrade in the Gryffindor common room later that evening. A bunch of fellow housemates came to welcome him back to the Gryffindor Tower when he went up to bed that night, and Greg had bothered him to stubbornly ask to stay awake a little longer to study for exams. John requested they do it the night after since he was exhausted and needed his proper rest to return to classes the next day.

A delicious breakfast of bacon and bagels, and blueberry muffins satisfied his stomach the next morning, and he headed off to his first class wide awake. Most of his day was spent writing notes and answering review questions, but he found it helpful for the end of year tests.

It naturally became a daily routine for Watson with the little amount of days he had left before summer vacation, and he even found a bit of spare time to write a short note home, explaining how excited he was to see everyone again.

The practice group of friends had gathered together one last time to produce Patronuses the Saturday before exams, in which their lesson was a joyful success. All of the original members had been able to cast their corporeal Patronuses, and Henry Knight had managed to produce a shield the size of a Quidditch goal hoop.

Finals had passed easier than Watson expected them to be, and when he'd completed all of them in his last week of school he sat outside in the nice breeze under a large maple tree. He let the wind brush against his face and not surprisingly found Sherlock joining him from finishing his Charms exam.

"So, how'd it go?" Holmes asked, taking off his robes and sweater so only his white shirt remained.

"Piece of cake," John commented.

'Don't tell Mycroft that."

"Why?"

"He loves cake. He'll take it literally."

"Oh," John said, unable to bite back his laugh. The comment wasn't related to their discussion but it was funny anyway.

They sat together on the top of the hill, overlooking Hagrid's cabin and watching the smoke puff out in clumps from the stone chimney. As the hours drifted by, the sun collapsed and faded into a brilliant shade of orange, sinking into the distant waves of the river which flowed from the Black Lake into the rolling mountains. White lights ignited inside the castle's windows, and Sherlock checked the time on his watch.

"Come along," he said, tapping John on the shoulder, "we should get inside. Don't want to miss the end of the year ceremony!" John sprang to his feet and cleaned off the hem of his robes, collecting his books and following the Ravenclaw into the school's front doors.

The Great Hall was almost completely packed when they entered, but they made their way down the middle aisle without drawing attention to themselves. Just by luck, they found two seats back to back at their house tables, and John shifted his sitting position so he could face in a little to keep an eye on his friend.

No sooner after they sat down had the headmaster rose from his gold throne to look out over his students. Professor McGonagall clicked her glass goblet with a spoon, silencing the dining area so Dumbledore could make the last announcements of the year.

"Look at that!" he spoke happily, making little swift motions with his hands, "another year gone! Just in the mere blink of an eye." There were a few claps from various points in the crowd, clearly from the seventh year students who were graduating from their school studies forever.

"Before we conclude this successful school term with our tasty feast, I have a few facts to tell you. First, the dementors of Azkaban have been fully restored to their positions in the prison, and I'm pleased to tell you we'll no longer have them step on our grounds."

There was a loud agreement from the crowd as whistles and claps rang off the walls, and the noise died down swiftly so the headmaster could continue. "Secondly, I'd simply like to wish you all a happy summer holiday! You've all been working so hard and deserve a break."

Again, the hall clapped to the glorious thought of no school for almost three months. "And now," Albus said, raising his tone and hands so he could talk over the last cheers, "it's time to announce the winners of this year's House Cup!"

Everyone went dead silent and leaned in to listen for the news. "In fourth place, Hufflepuff with 342 points." The students clapped to show support for the team who placed last in the competition. No matter who won, everyone was equally polite with their manners. "Third place goes to Slytherin with 367 points."

Unsportsmanlike, the serpents grumbled even though they hadn't placed fourth. "And now, the winner of this year's Cup!" He clamped his hands together and lifted them to hold in front of his face, palms directed towards some blank banners that hung from the arched ceiling. As clever and unbelievably as he always produced magic, the flags began to sway without any wind to control them, twisting and almost writhing in their transformation. The plain black blended to slip into a new color. The black grew lighter and stopped in a knowledgeable shade of navy blue, and bronze strips lined the edge of the square pieces of fabric.

"Congratulations to Ravenclaw, winners of this year's House Cup with 481 house points!"

Instantaneously, hundreds of students rose up from the wooden benches, all from different houses, jumping up and down just to have fun in the celebration. John's mouth hung open with a smile as he swirled around to embrace his friend, enclosing the brunette in a hug.

"Ha! Lucky you!" he grinned, and Sherlock shook him up and down in his firm hold.

"Hey, we're even," the eagle told him, and the lion raised an eyebrow. "I won the House Cup and you won the Quidditch Cup."

"Gotcha." He made a clicking noise with his tongue and teeth to show he got the comment. The celebration was growing around them, and it actually took half an hour before Sherlock, John, Lestrade, and Molly had all managed to push their way out of the Great Hall.

"Well, see you all tomorrow!" Molly smiled, exhaling with little gasps as she was so pumped up from the feast. "Congrats to you all!"

"Thanks!" Lestrade waved as they peeled off, Sherlock heading to Ravenclaw Tower and Molly towards the kitchens, walking with John up to the seventh floor. On their way up to the Gryffindor common room, they discussed the crazy ceremony until Greg randomly changed the subject.

"Damn," he swore, just as the Fat Lady yelled at them for his language and passing through the portrait hole, "today's the last day here."

"Yeah. Boy am I going to miss it."

"No, it's not that," Lestrade shook his head, telling the blond he was missing the point. John was lost. "That means we have to pack all our crap tonight."

John thought the idea was so stupid he couldn't help but laugh foolishly.

The thought of leaving Hogwarts in just over twelve hours was almost heartbreaking to John, so he stayed up for most of the night, sitting by the luminous window and petting his owl. She nibbled gently on his fingernails and made low hooting noises while she was stroked just below her chin. Athiel's cream and white feathers absorbed some of the moonlight, giving her wingspan a silvery glow to them.

At last, at around 1:45 A.M., John's eyelids began to droop and he pushed up off the floor before he sank off into sleep on the wooden ground. He pulled back the duvet on his mattress for the last time during his first year at Hogwarts and he fell into a peaceful sleep under the warm covers, absolutely going to miss the way he could crawl into a warm and comfy bed every night.

* * *

In his final morning John woke to find that he was alone in the boys' dormitory, and it was slightly hilarious to see that Lestrade's trunk was lying open and not completely packed on his bed. The red curtains surrounding the beds were drawn back, and the sheets on top were crinkled in all different ways depending on which boy slept on each mattress.

John got up out of bed and dressed himself in a formed pair of jeans and a blue and black striped shirt, pulling dark red socks over his feet to feel the fuzziness. He too had not packed all his items he needed to take home, and he found a couple pairs of shoes hidden under the bedposts. There were three pairs of All Stars and two pairs of dress shoes, and he slid them out to get a look at them all.

His trunk was placed on the floor with the lid open, and there were already a few clothing fabrics he hadn't worn all year stuffed and thrown in. He casually put all his school shoes into the bottom of the luggage and stopped to select a pair of sneakers for the day.

The ones that stood out the most to him were his red ones, still splotched with patches of blood around the shoelaces and covering the All Star logo. He stared at them with depression, kneeling and sitting back on his heels with his head bowed down. He held them before his waist like a kid when presenting a broken toy to their parents, and the state of bringing back memories prevented him from slipping them over his socks. Sighing, he shoved them into the bottom corner of his luggage without another glance at the red stretchy fabric.

He slipped on the classic black sneakers and tied the white shoelaces into perfect bows, then stood up to head down to the Great Hall. Three older Gryffindor guys sat hunched in the corner as he came down the dormitory stairs, bending over a chessboard and having one last game before their depart from the school for summer.

John passed a few clumps of students wandering about on his way down to the ground floor, and once he ran into Professor Flitwick and wished him a happy vacation. The sun was shining freely through the panes in the windows, and a clear blue sky rushed over the far horizon line outside.

The only person who was seated at the Gryffindor table when he arrived was Molly Hooper, and he nevertheless took a seat across from her, open in the presence of her. "Hey," he said, swinging his legs over the bench for the last time that year.

"Hi John!" Her cheeks puffed out as she smiled, showing a sliver of her teeth behind her lips.

"Where's Sherlock and Lestrade?" he asked, milk appearing magically in his golden goblet.

"Oh! Well, Professor McGonagall wanted to speak with Sherlock, and I think Lestrade went back upstairs to the library to return some overdue books..." Molly made an 'uh oh' expression on her face and the blond laughed, taking a bite out of a fresh strawberry and swallowing the fruit.

Neither of the missing boys showed up while they ate, so John offered to take a walk with Molly around the castle for a final time before they needed to head down to Hogsmede station. They ended up strolling down a few corridors they didn't even know existed, but then again Hogwarts was always full of crazy surprises and mysterious corridors.

Molly shrieked loudly as a ghost floated straight through her chest, sending a shivery feeling through her blood. The mist didn't even turn back around to apologize afterwards, and Hooper muttered some harsh words under her breath, which John never thought he'd hear her say.

At ten o'clock, teachers ran around the school and informed the students it was time to head down to the Hogwarts Express, so John grabbed Molly's arm and led her outside onto the grounds. The two developing friends linked their elbows together, looking like a happy and high‒spirited couple, skipping gleefully. They met up with Lestrade in the crowd somehow, but the only Ravenclaw was still missing.

The walk down to their mode of transportation took some minutes, and as the three friends stood on the platform, they got a clear view of their school off in the distance, perched undisturbed on top of a sloping, green hill. It was such a beautiful sight it almost resembled a painting, with the grass melting down to leave tracks and stains on their way to the bottom of the lumps.

John was about to step on board the train, handing his owl delicately over to Lestrade when he noticed Hagrid standing farther down the cement landing. He turned to the two first years, telling them to wait a moment with his set face. He dashed down the platform, running past the scarlet engine and dodging students of all ages.

"Hey Hagrid!" he yelled, beaming up at the Gamekeeper. It took a couple seconds for the half‒giant to hear the young boy, but soon he bent over to look down upon Watson.

"John!" he grinned, messing up his blond locks. "Consid'r'd leaving without sayin' goodbye, did yeh?" John had to smile at the thought of Hagrid feeling joyous in his presence.

"Nah," he disagreed, shrugging his shoulders and tilting his head a little. "I had to say goodbye."

"Come here," Hagrid beckoned, and John's head was pressed up and buried against his moleskin coat he always wore, no matter what season. Watson felt like he was hugging a tree trunk, and Hagrid's pink umbrella was poking him in his ticklish spot.

"Alright," the taller man said, breaking away from the tiny boy's squeeze, "on with yeh. And don't forget ter have a great summer holiday!"

"I won't!" John promised, smiling and running back to his friends who stood waiting for him.

"Feels strange going home, doesn't it?" Molly asked when John huffed and puffed at her side once more. Lestrade stood slouching in the doorway, his hand inches from the door lock that snapped shut.

All the departing lion did was let a sigh escape from his nostrils. Not a disapproving sigh, but an accomplished one. "No," he let out, letting his eyes find the castle over the view of everything. "I may be leaving the place where I belong, but I deserve to return back to my family. My real family. Because you all are my second family."

Greg grinned in an honored way. "It's a pleasure mate," he shared, his hand moving to stop over the center of his chest.

Molly's ginger ponytail swished in the light wind as she waved at the Gamekeeper, allowing John to pass her and step onto the train. A whistle blew off near the front engine, and soon a lurch announced that they were on their way.

John waved at Hagrid all the way until he was blocked by a large chunk of the bridge crossing over Hogsmede station, and he didn't let his eyes peel away from Hogwarts till they turned the corner and it vanished from sight.

Until it was time to return for more adventures.

Sherlock had managed to save a compartment for them all. As they walked down the hallway Greg found him sitting alone, watching a river flowing between valleys they were chugging over. He offered them seats and wizard sweets for later, but he mainly stayed slouched in the corner, tapping his hand on his thigh.

Molly and Lestrade's card game of solitaire was interrupted by the sound of John's Pocket Sneakoscope lighting up and whirling rapidly on its point, bewildering them all. Their question was answered almost immediately when Jim Moriarty passed by in the corridor outside, Irene Adler closely following. Sherlock's knuckles contracted as he grew angry at the Slytherin, and he saw the Gryffindor sink away from harm out of the corner of his eye. Because of the abuse, John had lost some faith in himself. Holmes kept his focus glued on the Pureblood, tightening the grip on his wand just in case. Moriarty blew on the glass door and drew the letters I.O.U. on the fogged‒up surface, and then he drifted off smoothly like a balloon. Sherlock was on his feet moments after they'd left, and he unlocked the door and erased the message infected with fingerprints hastily, using the sleeve of his blazer as a cloth.

"What was that?" Lestrade asked, dropping the Ace of Spades onto the carpet.

"Nothing," Holmes lied, settling back into his comfy position. "Just a stupid joke."

But John perfectly knew well it would bother the eagle for weeks to come. He kept his mouth sewn shut about the situation all the way on the ride home to London. He didn't want to add to Sherlock's sadness about leaving the school and learning magic to give it up for summer.

* * *

Just after five o'clock in the afternoon, the Hogwarts Express chugged into King's Cross Station to settle on Platform 9 ¾. Hundreds of families were gathered at the edge of the train tracks, dying to get a first glimpse of their beloved children after some long months away from home. John looked out the window in hope to see his mum, dad, and Harriet, but there was no sign of them hidden in the mobbed crowd.

"Alright." The four friends' luggage were scattered over the carpeted floor, and Greg had clumps of clothing sticking out of his trunk. Sherlock had stood up first before the engine came to a squeaking halt, informing the rest of his schoolmates that they should start their goodbyes. "I suppose this is farewell..."

"Not forever of course," Lestrade reminded, extending out his arm as the scene of their first meeting was almost played out before John and Molly. The larger Gryffindor slapped Holmes on the back, running a hand through his short hair so it stuck up in ruffles in the back.

"Come here you!" Lestrade beckoned, turning to his roommate and asking with his arms for a hug. The tiny blond almost vanished under the height of the boy with the thick British accent, and Sherlock and Molly both giggled as they came to say goodbye awkwardly.

Molly was debating about leaning in to give Sherlock a hug farewell, but she still was too shy to show her full affections for the curly‒haired brunette. "Well, bye!" She nervously smiled, waving strangely with the ends of her fingers. Both Molly and Lestrade left the two boys on their own, and they went in search for their families.

"Be sure to write this summer," Molly added, and they all decided before departing that they would keep in touch during their months off.

"Maybe they're waiting outside?" John suggested after they'd looked for over five minutes on the platform for their parents. Mycroft hadn't even appeared in the time span.

"Let's check," the brunette concluded, heading back over to Platform 9 ¾'s entrance. "Ready?" he asked, pushing his luggage cart in front of him with John by his side, bracing his legs to start running.

"Yep."

"Okay, go!" He sped up at a dead sprint, heading straight for the brick barrier while his pet made screeching noises as he went. John allowed a ten second time difference before taking off after Holmes, feeling the rushing sensation of wind as he passed through the transparent boundary.

He stopped a good distance from the wall from which he'd exited from, and Sherlock had vanished somewhere. Two second later, the Ravenclaw's curly head was seen peeking around another brick archway, and Watson followed him in excitement.

Standing near another black train was his mother and father. Harriet stood by the female's side and had changed a lot in the small amount of months he'd been away from home. Her face was less round and she had developed more muscle in her upper arms, but John bet she still couldn't beat him in a wrestling match.

"Hey Mum!" he shouted, jumping into her arms as she kneeled down to greet him. Her warmth was glorious, and Sherlock was saying hello to his family a few meters away. "Dad!" he greeted secondly, allowing the retired soldier to enclose him into a hug.

It didn't take long before Mycroft showed himself, and Sherlock automatically offered the idea of leaving the train station as soon as possible. John followed next to him, pushing his cart so their trunks were in two parallel lines. They heard their parents communicating over their backs, and Mycroft was busy blabbing away about how he thought his schedule would work out next year when he had to take N.E.W.T.s.

"I can tell this is going to be one awesome summer." Watson nearly giggled so hard he almost keeled over with a stomach cramp from the lack of air. After he regained his composure, he turned back to his friend, pushing the cart in front of his body. He was careful not to trip over his own feet this time, and what was new and different this time than his first appearance at King's Cross was the relief instead of the overpowering way it was before.

"And why's that?" he asked, giving Holmes a smirk to show off his curiosity. The boy who was still dressed in his Ravenclaw cloak and made sure the lingering silence was long enough, just so it molded perfectly into their discussion.

He reached over to place a pale hand on top of John's, which made him blush a little with embarrassment. Blue and green irises collided, and Sherlock's lips curled into the brightest smile John had ever seen him show before. Watson even thought he might have heard a snicker from Harriet over his shoulder, but he really didn't think adults or anyone in general should get ideas about two friends walking through a train station, clasping hands at the ages of eleven and twelve.

What could go wrong between best friends after all?

"Because you're here with me."


	25. Epilogue: Begin Again

** Epilogue **

Begin Again

* * *

It didn't take long for the acceptance of summer to sink in. The leaves on the trees grew to a brilliant lime color, and white fluffy clouds dotted the skyline above all the birds. Days grew hot and nights sank back down to cool, and the sky was so clear you could see every star lining the galaxy. The apple trees outside the Holmes' mansion had blossoming pink flowers on their branches, and the fruit itself was a dark scarlet shade of red. When Sherlock sank his teeth into the skin of one, the juice ran down his face and he licked his lips because of the sweet taste and freshness.

A family of doves had even built a nest right outside Sherlock's window, and sometimes his owl watched the members in its own family category with pleasing eyes. Grasshoppers sprang from one blade of grass to another, and crickets chirped a harmonious beat while he slept at night.

Mycroft had been disappearing day in and out for several days now, as business with the Ministry of Magic interested him and he was determined he was going to be offered a job as soon as he ended his seventh year at Hogwarts. The younger Holmes brother spent most of his days taking walks around his neighborhood, deducing more facts about all the houses on his street. He'd found a baseball bat in the yard where a young boy lived, a shovel where a local gardener planted seeds, and an empty lemonade glass that had been abandoned outside on the front porch of the home of an elderly couple.

There was no pool around or pond for the twelve‒year‒old detective to swim in, but it didn't matter because he never enjoy that kind of thing anyways. As a fun and different activity he baked chocolate chip cookies with his mum one afternoon and decided it would be nice to bring some to John. He munched on one as he sat and watched a boring movie play on the television and sent a text on his phone to his dear friend.

**Meet me in the field tonight around 7:30, okay?** **‒** **SH**

John had responded back not a minute later, judging by the fact that he wanted to see Holmes as soon as possible. From the letters and words in his text back, he was super excited for some reason.

**Sure. I'll come a little early. Want to do something first…And oh my god! Did you see the shooting star last night? Pretty epic!** **‒** **JW**

Sherlock laughed and swallowed a gulp of his milkshake, receiving a brain freeze as it went down his esophagus too quickly. It was incredible how many interests they shared between each other. Maybe that was how they got along so well without conflicts.

Because a shining star could never be neglected. Especially if his shooting star was his best friend.

An idea suddenly struck his mind as he stared off into space. His mother came into the living room and tidied up the place with a swift flick of her wand, and Sherlock rushed past her to leap upstairs, leaving footprints in the white carpet as he went.

The door of his sleeping quarters was thrown open and he scanned his bedroom to see where he'd left his school trunk. The luggage was in the far corner, lid open and clothes spilling out over the sides, located right next to his experiment table. He plunged into the pile, chucking things aside even though he knew he would have to clean it up later.

A pair of his school uniform pants was chucked onto his bed, and he slid some old shoes across the floor in the direction of his walk‒in closet. They skidded and tumbled over one another, thus not quite making it to the target spot.

He finally found his present after minutes of searching, hidden under his skull and Christmas scarf from John. He picked up the purple card and stared at his own smiling face. Whenever he smiled, so did the moving image of himself, like they were in synchronization. Just to complete the joy, he read the description engraved in gold under his Ravenclaw robes. When done, he focused only on two words, which then he narrowed down to one. What an outstanding combination of a name they made when forged together.

_John Watson._

_John. J_ _‒_ _O_ _‒_ _H_ _‒_ _N._

A smile crossed his lips as he sat back on his heels, kneeling on the scruffy carpet. And then he said something out loud and didn't care if anybody heard him. "Thanks little buddy."

* * *

The misty afternoon wind faded into dusk, and following a filling supper Sherlock bundled up in a light jacket to head over to the meadow. He wiggled his feet in his old dress shoes and closed the front door by the brass knocker, shoving his hands in his pockets to keep them warm in the chilly breeze.

He walked a little ways down the pale sidewalk before steering his course in the direction between two larger homes. He noticed as he passed by that it was the same house he'd walked by a year ago. The same bulldog was barking in the backyard, growling and chewing on a torn bone.

The grass flattened under his steps as he powered on, keeping his view on the horizon where the hill dumped off into a sloping lowland below. The lone oak tree looked like a puffy pillow; thick branches sprouted from its trunk and symmetrical leaves grew from all of the tiny stems. Sherlock couldn't see John from his distance away, and the closer he got he thought Watson wasn't there at all.

His mind was corrected when a blond boy's head was spotted above the tall grass. The shorter wizard had flattened a small circle around him so he could sit easily, and when Holmes got close enough he spied over his shoulder to see some sort of book lying in his lap.

"Alone much?" the brunette spoke, causing John to spin around slowly and face him.

"I guess…" he agreed, running his fingers over the smooth pages.

"What's that you've got?"

"Oh,it's a journal."

"What're you doing with a journal?" the detective asked, the thought seeming absurd.

"Well, I had this idea. Actually, my mum did, but I thought it would be cool too once she mentioned it. Since I've told her so much about my first year at Hogwarts, she thinks I should write all the events down. Kinda like a blog about my life, only the old fashion it down in words with a pencil."

"I see." Sherlock had reached John's side and crossed his legs, joining him in the shrinking sunlight. The younger boy was wearing his cream colored jumper and a pair of jeans, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to spread some heat on his clothes took in some of the light, giving them an orange glow.

Sherlock followed the setting sun with his eyes, taking in the blue, pink, orange, and black colors forming in the sky. The moon was just to the left in his peripheral vision, coming together so it was in the sky along with the sun. The great yellow ball pecked the tops of the hills far away, reflecting a light over the microscopic houses in the village below.

Sherlock picked at a fern by his side while John checked the time on his watch. "So," he broke the silence, peeling off small pieces of the plant at a time and throwing them aside, "are you planning to do this for all of our years at Hogwarts?"

"Depends," John mused, humming and closing the cover of his journal. The jacket was a specific shade of red, and gold initials in the bottom near the center read  _J.W._

"Ha." Sherlock checked out the book. "It looks like the journal Bilbo Baggins has."

"I know," John told him. "I don't think that's the reason why I chose it though. I probably did because —"

"It's Gryffindor colors." Holmes finished the sentence for him. The nod from the blond showed that the brunette wasn't mistaken. John didn't seem bothered that he was cut off. In fact, he'd gotten used to it and just went with it.

The smaller and younger boy rocked back and forth on his backside. Silence pressed between them as both of the kids said nothing, but Sherlock was getting curious and couldn't hold in his question any longer.

"Have you started it yet?"

"Yes," John said, positively. "But this is only the very first page," he continued, flipping the beginning few sections of paper over to find his own handwriting. A few fireflies fluttered their wings and flew around the two boys, leaping from different blades of grass and letting off tiny sparks of yellow flickers from under their wings.

"And it's definitely not where the story line ends," the Ravenclaw grinned, knowing the Gryffindor would no doubt write about all their adventures together.  _I can see John becoming a writer. Might not be a worldwide famous_ _one, but he's a clever boy and can figure out how to word some things._ "Can I hear it?" the brunette questioned, and John's mouth fell to remain open a smidge.

"I've only written one sentence!" he remarked.

"I thought you'd have more to say than that," the older said back, figuring his buddy had had this creative idea for some time already.

"It's hard to begin a book just right," the blond explained, recalling that he had written several different beginnings to his novel. "Besides, one line of words doesn't mean much."

"Of course they do. That's no excuse." The corners of John's mouth twitched, trying his best to avoid showing a smile.

"Please?"

"Fine," the Gryffindor gave in, smirking altogether. And then, clearing his throat, he smoothed out his reading page and spoke the words with confidence in his voice, concluding yet just setting up the first part of his tale of the adventures with his companion.

"A young boy stood staring out of his bedroom window, watching two siblings lying in a meadow not far away."


	26. Author's Message

**Author's Message**

*Hello everyone! Thank you so much for reading my story; I hope you've all enjoyed it as much as I have. I want to thank everyone who has stuck with reading this story until the very end, and I also am delighted by the amount of positive feedback I've received for creating this. The reviews I got on the story were so helpful and I thank you for the comments.

*Its been four months since I posted the first chapter...wow. I wrote over 110,000 words in that short span of time. And probably more will come!

*I am continuing to make slight changes to this story and fixing mistakes and such, so keep your eyes peeled for any new sections I might add in. I feel like I didn't put enough of the classes in, so I might write some more with that.

*By the way, did you catch where the last line of the epilogue is from? *hint hint* it's in chapter one.

*So, I wanted to interpret the idea of John having a "blog" into this story, so that's the idea I came up with. 

*I am also delighted to announce that I am planning to write a full series with seven books with this crossover, so be prepared for more! The list of the titles are on my profile page if you'd like to know what the next one is called and make some deductions. ;-)

*If you are an artist (like I am), feel free to draw any covers or scenes from this story as you wish! If you'd like to send it to me, just share it with me on Tumblr or something. My username is on my profile page. Or the other option would be to send me a link to the drawing. 

*I am pretty much writing three or four stories at once right now, so I'll add some more to those before I start the next book in this series. Feel free to read those as well if you love Sherlock. I am also busy with school and dance, so it might take me a while to write entertaining and well-written chapters and post them.

*So again, thank you so much! I couldn't have carried on without as much support. Be my guest to share this story, but just be sure to credit that I wrote it. I make no money off this story; it is for entertainment purposes only. BBC Sherlock and Harry Potter belong to their rightful owners.

*And any last comments you'd like to give, the more the better!

*I hope you've enjoyed reading this.

Sincerely,

Bethany :-)


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